


The Lay of Glorfindel and Erestor

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [50]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Combing, Coming Out, Eventual Smut, First Time, Fluff, Hair, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Self-Hatred, elves are weird, seriously weird elves, silvans are very odd even to other elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-16 05:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 47,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2257701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Love Story. A very Elven love story.</p><p>Elves love. Elves are not human, not mortal, they do things differently. But - what you don't know, you don't miss - until you find out.</p><p>A companion to Wager of Sin (but you don't need to have read that), in which Erestor is the eminently sensible advisor to Elrond, having hung up his sword, and Glorfindel - is not so sensible, and has not hung up his sword.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wynja2007](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynja2007/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Wager of Sin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2054250) by [telemachus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus). 



> Any opinions expressed by characters (particularly Glorfindel....) are their own. Not mine. I'd just like to make this completely clear, Glorfindel is very much his own person. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also, this was originally going to be short, & light-hearted, following on from Wager of Sin. But - it didn't work out quite that way once they started talking. Erestor talks a lot. And then Glorfindel wasn't going to be outdone......
> 
>  
> 
> Gift for Wjna2007. Because xi asked, & then listened to a fair amount of complaints about Erestor talking too much.

Now, at such a distance, I can hardly remember the first time I saw him. 

No. Foolish thing to say. Of course I can remember. 

I am an elf.

And, of all elves, I am not one to forget anything. Not one to let a memory be coloured by subsequent events.

So any would tell you.

So, yes, I remember only too well, the first time I saw Glorfindel. We knew he was said to have returned over the sea, said to have sailed here – and we knew not quite what to make of him, of why he had returned – there was much talk. Talk as only elves can talk.

Talk from the outer reaches of the kingdom of Mithlond, where we were, on some – I forget what Gil-galad called them, we call them fact-finding missions – when first we heard the news, all the way to the city, where we would meet him.

Talk that went on for days, round and round the point, yet never reaching a conclusion.

Talk that never even accepted – there could be no conclusion. How could we know what the Valar were thinking, to send him back from the Halls so soon?

How could we guess why he would choose to leave Valinor, choose to sail East, as, I think, no elf has since?

So. He came trailing clouds of – not only glory – but rumour. Speculation. 

Hero worship.

And, if I am to be fair, as I should be, he did seem to be most of what we had heard. Not all, it would not be possible for anyone to be all we had heard. But, he was fair, he was joyful – as you would be, I suppose, in the circumstances – he was kind, when it was no great trouble, he was charming, though perhaps not always without a hint of impatience for fools, he was skilled with weapons. 

That above all. He was the most skilled fighter I had ever seen, and for all that I am now thought of as a librarian, a councillor, I have fought in my time, in those days I was as likely to wield a sword as a pen. I followed Elrond through many battles, before I chose this path. 

And if things go ill, doubtless I will fight again before the end.

So.

I remember meeting him. 

Long ago. In Mithlond, as I said, when I was still Elrond’s captain, when Elrond was still Gil-galad’s lieutenant, herald. 

And in came this – hero. Beautiful, as no Noldor before or since has been, golden, tall, strong, built almost like a Man, but – nobler. More perfect. Oh, I could talk, but – just look at him.

He is an elf.

He does not change.

Elves being what they are, there are two schools of thought – no, say rather, two schools of gossip about us. 

One is that we hated each other on sight. The differences are too great, they say, we must have fought, sniped, argued, for months, years, decades, millennia. After all, he is known for being golden, I am Noldor-dark. He is one to act, to fight, I am known for thinking, planning, strategy. He is outgoing, easy company, a heavy drinker, an, if you will, typical soldier – I am one to enjoy the company of friends, but not strangers, one to savour a fine vintage, not down a barrel. Yet somehow, and the stories vary, perhaps he rescued me from wolves or some such idiocy, perhaps I helped him face his grief for his lost home, we learnt to appreciate each other, to love, to comb together.

The other, is that we fell in love immediately he came to Mithlond, whether we knew it or not, and would never be separated. That the differences drew us together like a magnet. That, I suppose, we wrote each other notes and poems, wore our hair half-braided to council meetings to distract one another, glances across the table, sighs of longing, perhaps even provocatively played with our own hair, until at last we began to comb together.

As though Elrond would have tolerated such behaviour – either sort – arguing pointlessly, or flirting ridiculously – when there was business to be done, a realm to be governed.

I do not even want to think of how the High King would have reacted to such idiocy.

I suppose the truth is not as entertaining.

The truth being so simple.

We are both professionals. Both elves. Both Noldor.

More in common than divides us.

We neither hated nor loved at first glance, nor at second. We simply – accepted our Lord’s choice of retinue, and worked together. He never underestimated my knowledge of strategy, nor I his of the way people are.

We were colleagues.

For a long time.

Always under Elrond, but, to begin with, under the High King, Gil-galad. Then, after he fell, when all seemed ruined, when so many sailed, so many things changed – that was when we found we had both chosen the same lord.

I suppose it made sense – he had died to save Elrond’s grandfather, so that he wished to serve him – it was logical.

And so a surprising choice for him.

Gradually, we became – friendly colleagues. I would not say friends, but, we talked of things other than those discussed in meetings. 

Years pass, elves change, a little, a very little.

I – I found I no longer wished to carry a sword. I found I have a talent for organisation, for thinking logically, expressing myself clearly. So I became – advisor, librarian, councillor – call me what you will, any or all of those. 

He – he does not change. Oh, some of the rougher edges smoothed down. He learnt to accept the changes in custom that had come in the long years he wandered Mandos’ Halls. Not to like them, not to approve, not to let them pass without comment, but to accept he cannot always change the ways of others.

And, as the years passed, as combmates came and went for each of us, as the realm of Elrond lessened to merely the Valley, as the number of elves around us became less, as we found past indiscretions became more and more difficult to avoid, perhaps we were each glad to have one friend – yes, friend I think by then – with whom we had not shared a comb alone, one who was still just a friend. One who could always be combed with in a group, never causing offence to others, never raising hopes of a renewal of interest.

I daresay, if we were mortals, if we had only a short span of time, we would never have become more than colleagues, certainly never more than friends. Things would have stopped there.

At least, I suppose so. But I know little of mortal ways, they have never been my study. Perhaps if one is able to fall in and out of love, as I understand mortals do, one might be less cautious. One might leap in quicker if it were possible to climb out. 

No. I think that is not true. Plenty of mortals take what seems to them a long time to marry, plenty of elves are quick. 

Perhaps it was just us. 

Maybe even just me. 

I have always been one to be cautious, not hurry into anything. I like to think things through, see the possible outcomes, consider the benefits, the risks. 

At least, I used.

So then. We were friends. We had combed together many times, but always in a group, never wishing to declare, to ask for more. I had seen him take another aside, he had seen me do likewise, yet none of those combings lasted long – long in elf terms that is – merely a few decades. 

We were friends. We had collaborated over the education of Elrond’s children, he overseeing the more physical aspects, myself the academic. Pity the child who learns to write from Glorfindel – even now, his scrawl is terrible. I daresay he would have similar to say about my shooting – I was never an archer. 

Of course, nor is he. But he excels with every weapon, and with none.

I daresay that is the source of idiotic tales of his bare-handed fights with wolves, bears, one day, I expect to hear he has wrestled a mumakil. Foolishness. Illogical. He may be strong, he may have killed Men, orcs, and for all I know elves, with his bare hands – but not from choice, not for sport.

He still cannot write legibly.

We were friends.

Friends who had begun to admit we cared perhaps, a little more for each other than for any other friends. 

Friends who had begun to look, to hope that we would be able to comb together most nights.

Firends who had ceased to comb alone with any other.

Friends who, when he came back from patrol, or I from some trade negotiation, would take care to be there to welcome the other home. And, if there were always words of jest for his ridiculous bells, for my impractical robes, there was also always the reaching, the touching of ears that said – you are my home, you are what I come back to, you are the one I miss when you are absent. You are the one for whom I look.

I suppose we would have moved on in time, with or without any catalyst.

I hope so.

I would hate to think that the only way we could have found each other was through another’s pain.

Perhaps, perhaps there would always have been some event that would have made us see.

I just wish it had not had to be as it was.

Much has been said of that time, much speculated. I know. I have heard it.

It was a sad time.

To watch a family fall apart must be the hardest thing there is, I think. A family one has known and cared for, served and respected.

Children one helped tutor. To see them lose their mother, and in such a way.

The lord and lady one has served so long. To see their marriage fall apart, not through lack of love, not through a gentle severing of ties, but through such pain, such grief, such hurt.

To watch the choice become to stay together, and see her fade, or for her to leave, go West, alone. Leaving him behind tied to duty.

Of course, we went to him, separately and together, said, do not let your wife go alone, do not be here alone. Go with her. Sail. This land – this land could be left to another. Your sons. Your daughter. 

Or surely your wife’s mother would have someone she could send? Someone who could take your place, allow you to be at the side of your lady when she needs you so?

No.

Apparently not.

He spoke of others who had to suffer so, of duty, of putting things above a selfish love. He spoke, I remember, of Elven-king Thranduil, Thranduil of the Woodland Realm.

We had no answer.

If only we had known then, what we know now, if only we could have pointed to that example and said, ‘yes. Is that who you would be?’ 

If only we had had the gift of foresight that day, if we could have said, ‘sail now, and take your daughter. Or stay, and watch her choose mortality.’

But we did not.

And so, Lady Celebrian sailed. 

And for many years, there was little joy in Imladris.

As I said, much foolishness has accreted round us over the years. 

Neither of us combed alone with Elrond, and nor did we comb together as a threesome. He had children, remember, unwed, without combmates, living in his House. Why would he comb with any but them? Why seek affection from any retainer?

Neither of us was responsible for the protection of the Lady, for the choosing of her guard. Why would we be? 

That was a task for her husband. Had he asked us, either of us, both of us, we would have been with her. Had he known, had he any idea of what might befall – he would have been with her.

Or she would not have been travelling.

So – grief. But no guilt.

Anger. But no guilt.

Distress, pain, at watching the twins become obsessed with revenge. But no guilt.

Elves do not feel unnecessary guilt. We are not Men, to be made so.

But – there was little joy. The House began to be – quieter. Oh, there was still a certain amount of singing, of tra-la-la-lally, and so forth. Elves will be elves. 

But – perhaps because we were older than some, perhaps because we had each seen too many hurt, too many dead, we found we spent more time quietly alone.

I watched my lord grieve, and it came to me that there was one for whom I would grieve. One who I would miss, were he to sail. 

And for the first time in all my years, I wished to offer my comb, not for a night, not for a short time, not for ‘as long as it pleases both you and I’, but – forever. I wished to vow, and to hear his vow in return.

Then it was I found that courage in battle is a different thing from courage in love. Then it was I found that to analyse, to think, to calculate is sometimes not enough. 

The calculation was easy. If I stayed silent – all would be as it was, and I could learn to be content with that, surely. With friendship, with combing, with laughter, and talk, and reverie within a group. If I spoke – I risked losing it all. I had seen it happen, seen some of those whom he had combed with ask for more, ask that he vow for a time even, and I had seen how fast he turned away. What made me think I would fare differently?

Nothing. And my courage was not enough.

Of course, whatever else has been said of him, he has never lacked courage. Sense, finesse, wisdom, empathy, yes, all of those, but not courage.

Even if he sometimes finds it at the bottom of a bottle.

He came to me, one evening, as I was working. Alone in my office. I forget now what I was doing, but it was not late, I had not missed the evening meal. It was a beautiful summer evening, light streaming in through the windows, the gardens full of flowers – yet no-one wished to comment, to sit among them, to sing their praise – for we all knew who had planned them, who had loved them, and that she was not here to see – it took the gilt off. 

Anyway. He came to me, bottle in hand;  
“I have no appetite this evening. It is too warm,” warm – as though we were not elves, to be unaffected by cold or heat, I wondered what he was thinking, what he was up to, “I brought you cold wine instead.” And he busied himself pouring it, his back turned. “Erestor, I would not speak if you would rather I did not, I rely on you to silence me if that is what you will. But – it has been long that we have been friends. Long that it has been your hands on my ears I have hoped for as I approached the House after time away, long that I have stood to greet you, to touch your ear-tips when you return. Long that we have combed among others. Never have we combed alone, yet it seems to me that both of us have begun to wonder how that would be. If I am wrong in this, silence me now – if you do not, I shall take it as your permission to speak.”

As I said, he has never lacked courage, and at this he faced me, wine-cups in hand, and when I met his eye, and answered,  
“You are not wrong, speak, mellon-nin, for I would hear what is in your thoughts,” he crossed the room and sat beside me, as he so often sat to read what I wrote, to comment, to gossip, and yet – yet it was not as he so often sat. He did not keep any distance between us, he did not look at my work, and I – I laid down my pen, and took the wine-cup from his hand. 

He gestured to it; “Drink it, and do not spill it, do not waste the vintage. It is a good one. I – I would not bring you any less tonight. Drink it, and listen kindly to what I need to say. Erestor, I would offer you my comb – I would. Were I able to, I would offer you a vow, I would ask that of you. I am not.” and, I confess, my heart sank. Was it as some of the foolish gossip had it then? Was there one to whom he was vowed in Gondolin, though no official record survived? Was he not free? Was this – just some kind way of preventing me making more of a fool of myself than I perhaps already had?

Before I could begin to ask, to hint at any of this, he spoke again;  
“Like it or not, I am a warrior. A soldier. And not just a soldier, but a general once more. It is not truly my choice, yet – who can have their choice in these or any times? It is my skill, it is what I do best, and so – so it is my position. And – Erestor – you were a warrior once, I know, you must remember how it is? Or perhaps you do not. I suppose you only ever fought in an army, but – in such a small force, it is vital that I know my elves, and am known of them. They must trust me, and each other. There is only one way I know to build that – and in this time of all times, we need it – and so – so I cannot – I am not free.”

And I laughed. Laughed with joy, for it seemed I understood – and then I saw his face, and I felt cruel.

“I am glad to have brought you amusement,” he said, and the warmth in his eyes froze to ice, his grip tightened on his cup, and I – I feared lest the delicate stem should shatter. I feared lest the delicate understanding between us should shatter also.

“No,” I began, reaching out with one hand, then, thinking better of it, setting down my cup and reaching with both, one hand touching his, and feeling the tension, the muscles tight as a bowstring, one hand brushing lightly against his ear, wondering if this was allowed, letting the strands of his hair – always it loosens itself from even the tightest braid – letting the strands twist round my fingers until I felt it would tie me to him, even as my heart longed to be tied, “no, Glorfindel, mellon-nin, I laugh not at you, not at how the world is, but – but that you are not vowed to another, that you wait not for one to return to you, as so many say. I have long – long – desired to offer you my comb, to vow with you, and I have feared to be gently put aside as I have seen you do to so many. There are so many rumours about you – you must know this – and for a while there – you seemed to be about to confirm one of them.”

He shrugged, and looked away a moment, as he always does when these things are mentioned;  
“No. I have never vowed to any before. Never wished to. And – I do not hear the rumours about me, only about you, Erestor, the cold-hearted, proud, one who barely combs at all, who has no friends, only colleagues, my poor elf who never knew love or affection even at his mother’s knee, never knew his father at all.”

I gasped, and then realised,  
“Yes. That is how they would have me. It makes for a better story, and elves love stories. What care I? I know the truth of my life, and – will you know it too? Glorfindel, is there – maybe it is much to ask – but – is there any vow you could make? For I would dearly, dearly wish for our combing to mean much to us both.”

Then as our eyes met again, as wine was forgotten, and hands – hands reached to stroke ears, oh so gently, so – differently to any touch I had felt before, as our voices rose, hesitant at first, but learning each other so easily, so rightly, our songs meshing as I had never known songs could mesh, then I think we both understood that our combing meant much. That there are, sometimes, for elves, some words that need not be spoken.

And oh, how could I have thought before that night that I had known what combing could be? How could I have thought that any other could comb me as my love could? Or even that his combing could be as it should be, when we had not the courage to speak to each other of love? 

That night, that night we agreed – we vowed ourselves to each other – to comb only together or with a group, a group that ‘need or custom make necessary’ was the phrase we fixed on, knowing what we meant by it. 

At some stage, that wonderful night, that night when no reverie was needed, I asked him, what it was that had given him the courage to speak to me, and I suppose I should not have been so surprised by the answer, typical as it was of him.

“I had been thinking – for some time – oh since – it happened – that to lose the one you love must be – the worst thing. Worse than anything,” and I thought – well, he is the one to judge that, I suppose, so I did not argue, “and it made me wonder – for whom would I feel that? None, I thought, and then – then I realised. One who is not as wine or fruit to me, but one who is as bread and water, as needful, as taken for granted as those,” he shrugged, and went on, “that is not much of a love-poem. But it is as good as you will get from this warrior. As to why tonight – because I looked up from my work, and you were not there. It is usual for you to remind me to come to dinner, usual for you to check I have finished my lists for the morrow, and when you did not – the fear that you might not again had me determined to act at last. Otherwise I daresay we could have continued for another century or so.”

And I laughed, for I knew he was right. I would never have dared to speak.

But he has never lacked courage.


	2. Chapter 2

When they rode down into Mithlond that first time, I saw him. And it felt wrong – that of all those present it was him I noticed. I knew not why – surely, surely I should be looking for Elrond? After all, it was him I had come to serve, his family I was sworn to, sworn so strongly that I was allowed back after so short a time, allowed to travel East, as few other elves have ever done since. Yet – it was not Elrond who drew my eye.

No.

It was that slight dark figure riding beside him. In my memory he is holding a list, tutting, making a little mark to show that I am not as expected. Of course he was doing no such thing.

My memory of those days is not good.

Funny side-effect that. Not one they tell you about. – Who? Who could have told me? No others have come back, not back to Arda. I wonder about that, sometimes. Why not? Is it so bloody hard to build a boat? 

Perhaps others are slower to be reborn. I would not know.

But – the first time I spoke to him. Was it then, at the door, gathered like some welcoming reception?

I do not know.

Perhaps it was at a meal, he, slight, dressed in his formal robes, looking me up and down with disdain, as though he thought I would not know how to behave in such a setting. Tempted to send me to the barracks to eat. Watching my every move, ready to make a little note, remind himself – see that no sharp knives are near Glorfindel, see that he is not sat near any visiting dignitaries, see that unprotected maidens are kept away, their combs guarded. 

Of course, he did no such thing. 

He does not need notes, not with his memory.

Or, again, perhaps it was in Elrond’s study, a formal introduction, ‘Erestor, my chief captain; Glorfindel, who will be a lieutenant of the High King, as I am.’ And he would have bowed very correctly, very proper, very slim, skin very pale against his proper Noldor hair. Then watched me, floundering through the etiquette of a time I did not belong to, and made a little note to have me brought up to date on such things before I embarrassed his lord.

There is a theme here, is there not? 

It is not really fair. He has never been discourteous, or impatient, never given outward signs that he thinks any of these things. Never shown he finds me simple, brash, loud, all the things that he is not. Yet still – I know that is how he sees me.

Well, to an extent, he is right. It is not easy to come back as I did, not easy to take over the command – glad I was that the elf I replaced was happy to go, or the road would have been harder still. But – to know that every elf who meets you thinks ‘oh the Balrog-slayer’, and then – either ‘hero, what can I say, what can I do to impress?’ or ‘yes, but his city fell, he died, they lost, why should I listen to him?’, and underpinning any other thought, ‘why has he come back? Why not my son, father, husband, mother, sister, daughter, wife, friend, combmate?’, and to know I have no answer to that, is not easy. My way has always been to battle on through, to use what my father would have called the ‘charm offensive’. Often it works.

If not – then I am rarely blamed for any brawl, because – I have been charming. I daresay that is not very honest behaviour, perhaps not what my dear councillor would approve. 

Still. He has never said any of his disparaging thoughts aloud; always we have worked well together.

How not? We are both professionals. That above all, is what we have in common, and it unites us more than anything could divide us.

So the years pass.

Combmates come, and combmates go – I am not, and never have been, one to swear fidelity. My comb is my own, to use as I please. Above all, I am a soldier, I need to comb with those I fight alongside, I need to know them, and have them know me, we need to build trust. And if, outside those times, those sessions, I chose to comb with smaller, darker, more – fragile – elves – what is that to any?

I have not hurt any hearts. At least, I have not intended to. Certainly, I do not believe those I have combed for a season and then moved away from have ever sobbed as pretty Lindir sobs, unable as he is to express – even to himself I think – what it is he so longs for. How not, when it is clear to half the household, though not to the one concerned, I do not know, but I am quite, quite sure the minstrel has yet to admit his love.

Is that love, that romantic longing he feels? That desire to comb, to serve, one who is above you – in station, or in imagination? Is that love? 

I suppose it is one sort. Not the sort I would ever wish to feel. I have always thought love should be like – and I suppose it is naive that I believe this, I suppose there may well have been adult undercurrents that at the time I never saw – but love should be like the bond between my parents. Both were intelligent, well-respected elves, both people in their own right, known for their different skills, in that far-off time, that land where so many things were different. I cannot believe – I will not believe that either of them was ever so longing, so – and the word is cruel, but apposite – pathetic. 

Pathetic – a word that has changed over the years. When I say it, I mean – full of pathos, a melancholy sadness, an almost tender weakness. I have to remind myself that is no longer how my hearers understand it, that to say someone is pathetic now, is to insult them, to call them weak. 

Love, then, love should not make you pathetic – in either meaning. Love should be something that makes you strong, something that binds two together, love should – should be joyous, should build life. Perhaps I am more romantic than I know, to believe this, but that is what I saw as an elfling, and I will settle for nothing less.

And so my comb is my own. 

Never have I found one I could consider binding to, never have I found one who I could love who would be strong for me too. Of course, now I am ‘the Balrog-slayer’, none would ever think I could wish for such.

So I thought, for so many years. Blind, Glorfindel, blind as the bats that squeak and roam those dark Halls where you have no wish to return. 

For all the time, there was one. One who never saw me as anything but the flawed elf I am – one who saw more flaws than perhaps there are. One who ever made me work to my fullest ability, one who ever pointed out any mistakes impatiently, confident I could do better – and ever I found I could. One who never praised me, yet when he would, from time to time, huff at another, and say ‘oh, let Glorfindel handle that – at least then it will be done properly’ – I would glow then, feeling as though his trust were worth more than the praise of any lord. 

One I never combed with alone, yet missed from any group were he not there. One whose hands and song had some special quality all their own, that I could not name.

One whose presence I came to rely on more than I knew.

Then – ah then there was that sad time. Watching our lady fall apart – as well she might, and any who say otherwise know little of the pain she endured – watching her struggle for months to overcome it – watching her children see her torment and pretend not, as she tried to hide it from them. Above all, watching her husband suffer as the one he loved was close to fading, watching him in agony as he faced the decision to send her West for her health, and the awful choice to stay or to go – knowing whatever he decided would feel wrong.

She went – and I am still not sure that he made the right decision – cannot but feel he would have been better to go with her, for surely – surely – love should be worth more than all the – whatever it is he stays for. Duty, perhaps, yet – there are others who could serve in that way. I know, I know, ‘the Balrog slayer’ to say such a thing – but when I died, when I put duty ahead of all else – there was none to grieve so for me, my parents already dead in that battle, last of my House, no combmate – duty, the coldness of duty, is for those who are not given in love, it seems to me. Perhaps I am archaic, as they say when they think I do not hear. 

When she had gone, my poor lady, gone to where I hope there is peace for her as she waits for her lord, her children, then, watching my lord suffer so forced me to reflect. All the years I had lived – twice over – all those years – and there was none for whom I would care to that extent, and it made me wonder what I lacked. Day upon day I pondered it, I asked myself, what is it that I lack? Is this why I was sent back? Is it not a reward, as some say, and indeed I have never known why I should deserve such a reward more than any of the others who have died protecting or serving, not a reward, but a requirement – to learn to love one above all others? 

But – who can tell what the Valar purpose?

I never answered that question. 

There was one night though – perhaps evening is a better word – when it came to me, as I sat in my office, thinking, and thinking, failing to actually work – and suddenly I realised I was falling behind with my tasks, I was becoming so absorbed with this. Well, I thought, what of it? Does it truly matter? If this is not done by me, it will be done by another.

And then – yes. It matters because – because if I do not do it, it will not be done properly. It will not be done to his standard. He will be cross, and most likely he will end up doing it himself.

He works too hard already. I should do this to save him.

Not for the good of Imladris, not for the service of my lord, not for duty, but – for him. Because I care.

And I worked the harder.

Then, I think, I began to understand myself, and then – then I began to watch him more closely than before, though it was only when I realised how well I knew his habits, his ways, that I saw how closely I had always watched, how much I had cared and for how long. Months passed, and I found – I found that no matter how congenial the group, combing was not combing to me if he was not there. Except, of course, that necessary combing which a group of fighters must do together.

That is something that has changed. When I was young, long, long ago, in that far-off land, that far-off place, none would ever ask a warrior to cease combing with his – or her – troop. Never. It was understood that came before all other bonds. So now, when I have one of my band come to me and say – I can no longer comb, I am in love, I am vowed or wed – it seems odd to me. I want to ask – so, your elflings – will you not comb them? For if so, how does that not harm your bond, your combmate? And if it does not, why then would this, this combing among shield-brothers?

But they do not understand. I am a relic from another time; I have not changed as elves should change when the world moves on – because I lived not through the movement.

So I stay silent, and I try to take on these new ways.

The months passed, the House became less desolate – though it was long before there was true joy here again. New habits became formed, and I came to understand my reliance on him. Someone said, once, something about “at home by the fire, whenever you look up, there shall I be – and whenever I look up, there will be you”, and – as it was for my parents – that has always seemed to me the way it should be in love. 

So, for all I had hidden from it, tried not to feel it, for I thought it would do me no good, I found that – whenever I looked up, there he was – or if not, there I wished he was – and as for the other way about – how could I know? And that was what made the House a home to me, had been for many, many decades, truth be told. 

Courage it took to face that; to admit, that if he were not there, no home would it be to me, to say to myself, he waits for you to speak, he is not one to pursue, being too proud. Courage to know my reliance on him, and hope his might be the same. 

But there was a day when he did not come for me, as had long been his habit, to – I would like to say, to walk to the evening meal together, that we might talk, but it would be more honest to say – to ensure I had done all he hoped that day, and regulate my drinking to ensure he got the work he needed from me later that evening, or early the next morning. And this day, he did not come. 

He would say – it was not the time, he was not late, it was I that looked for him early. I would say – it was past the time, he was late, though I never knew him wrong before or since. Be that as it may, the fear that gripped me then, that he might not come, that he might have another to rely on, to escort, made me know myself, and made me know I must speak.

In my youth, if one wanted to say such a thing, to ask for combing alone, to hint at a desire to vow, or, if it were a lady one loved, to speak of betrothal, of weddings and elflings, there was a way to approach the matter. A very formal, correct way. Flowers, words of ritual, a particular music, things which – which one did gradually, gave each a chance to refuse without words, that friendship might not be broken. 

I miss those days, sometimes. Things were much clearer then.

Perhaps they were not, perhaps it only shows that I never experienced it, only heard tell, only heard others talk – and I suppose the ones who were hurt, were destroyed by the failure of their hopes – did not talk.

From which you may gather my hopes did not fail.

Even though there was no formal pattern to follow, no set gifts, no ritual words, it seemed that my fumbling words, my offered wine, my – my heart, I suppose – were enough. And my sweet Erestor and I were happier than I had ever known possible.

His combing was – is – so much to me, and his voice, and all we share. And, unlike so many elves, he is rational enough to understand that I must comb with my warriors, it is part of who I am, it is my role, my task. There is a part of me, I own, that does not regret this, that is happy not to have to make that final commitment. Not just yet.

One day, perhaps.


	3. Chapter 3

I read what I have written, and it tears me to think – yes. That is how it was. That is how it should still be.

I love Erestor.

He loves me.

We are combmates, and yet – he is wise enough, understanding enough, to let me control my comb, take it elsewhere when I need to, and I – I am happy for him to do the same.

What else could an elf ask for?

Had you asked me that question a month ago – I would have looked at you as though you were out of your mind. Nothing.

Oh, I suppose some would say – to love One with whom you could have elflings – but – no. I never felt that urge for offspring, and so – it never seemed to me to matter that my One is as male as I.

I have my One, I comb with him, his voice with mine, his hands on me, and mine on him.

I have my work, my pride, my reputation, my – if you will – glory.

Do not ever make anything of the pun.

We have a Home.

I thought all was golden, as golden as life can be this side of the sea, and I dreamed that one day, one day, we would sail together.

 

Now I think I can never sail.

I do not see how the Valar could allow me entrance to those lands.

Now I think I know why I was bid return. 

Not reward, not a task, not to better myself.

But because I am flawed, broken, twisted. There is something amiss within me, and perhaps Mandos saw it, and threw me away.

This – this which I now think of – this that I saw – this – that I cannot cease to long for, to hope for, to dream of – oh sweet Elbereth, forgive me, cleanse me. This is wrong. I know it to be wrong.

Perhaps not for mortals – it would seem not from the joy on their faces, from the casual acceptance by their comrades – but – for elves – such things – are wrong.

As wrong as – as flitting from one marriage to another would be.

As wrong as – as leaving one’s elflings.

As wrong as – deserting the battle-line.

As wrong as breaking a vow.

Yet now I have seen those dwarves – it would be dwarves, I suppose, dully, all the trouble in Arda is started by dwarves, it sometimes seems to me – those dwarves – and I do not even know their names, do not know who they were – as though that would help – whether they were princes or commoners, warriors or toymakers, or something in-between – now that I have seen them – I cannot forget it.

I cannot cease to think of it.

Of that devouring of each other, that shared passion, that – not violence – but – urgency, that is the word – for each other’s touch.

I did not stay to watch, I did not.

When once I realised what I could see, when once I understood it was not some battle, some – I do not know – some dwarvish dance – I turned, I went away.

I hid.

But the sight stays with me, imprinted in my mind, and wherever I go, whenever I am not busy, it comes back to me.

And I keep thinking – oh Elbereth, take this cup from me, I do not want to taste it – I keep thinking of the things they did – and – and I suppose there must have been more – that they were going to do – and I – I cannot but think of my sweet, sweet Erestor.

I cannot but wonder – what would it be like to hold him in that way?

Just to hold him. To press against him with every part of us touching.

Would that be so bad? So very wrong?

To press close, and not just to give support, not just in friendship, but – but with that – that need, that ferocity I saw. That – desire.

That is the word. Desire. 

A word I thought meant to wish for elflings, but now – now I find it may mean something else. 

Something which between two not married, two who could never marry, would be wrong. Utterly wrong.

Something inside me cries out that no, no it would not, how could it be wrong, how could it be anything but sweet, but good?

But it is not my good sense which says this. It is not my faith, which tells me – no. If the Valar had wanted elves to behave so, we would know. And we do not – I do not. So it must be forbidden. 

Take this cup from me. It will poison all I have, all I have striven for these many years. 

Please. 

Let me forget what I saw.

I would be an elf, as I was before, this sight forgotten, before my Erestor comes home, that I may greet him, may touch his ears, may comb with him, sing with him, and feel the love we have shared for so long, without this – this darkness which whispers – hold him closer, run your hands where they have never before thought of touching – touch his lips with yours.

Valar help me.

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

My love, my Glorfindel has never lacked courage.

Never until now.

Now, there is something preying on him. He thinks I know not, and indeed, he hides it well. But – I am no fool. 

Something distresses him. 

It has been growing since those dwarves came. I do not know what happened – of course I do not, I was not here, and a pretty mess Lindir and he made of all the arrangements between them – but something happened then. Something happened that began to change what is between us, and I know not what, nor why, nor how to respond.

Since then, when we are reunited, he touches my ears, he accepts my touch on his, but – it is as though he is not content. I do not know why. He seems – I do not know – he seems impatient with our combing, bored of our song. His hands are rough sometimes, in a way they never were before. I do not know what it is, but I fear – I begin to fear I should release him from his vow.

I do not wish it. 

But I begin to fear that is what he wants.


	4. Chapter 4

I cry out to them, but the Valar do not hear – or do not listen. Perhaps they will never listen to me again.

And at that thought – I could despair. I cannot see why they should listen. I am turned away from them, and at every attempt to crawl back, even as I reach out to the stars, as I look up to find hope and comfort, to find something to hold onto, I fall. I fall for all I can think of, all I can want is my sweet Erestor, his hands, his voice, and even as I try to cling to that – this terrible other comes back, and I – I think of him in a way I should not.

How can the Valar look to me, reach out to me, when I cannot to them?

I am flawed now, and I do not know how to hope for forgiveness.

He comes home, oh my dear, my councillor, and I stand, as I know he expects me, ready to greet him, and I reach out, I touch his ears, I speak words of welcome. But one thing about my Erestor, he is no fool, and he knows, I can see in his eyes that he knows, there is something not right between us, somehow my touching is not quite – as it should be, my words are perhaps not said in the right voice, the right way, and when we comb together this night – there is an unease that has not been there before.

He is no fool, and no coward either, and so in the cold light of morning, he speaks,  
“Glorfindel, mellon-nin, has something gone amiss while I was away?” he is careful not to meet my eye, to give me the chance to think, to answer as I will, but I – I am a coward, I find, in this I am no hero, I dare not tell him any of it – and nor dare I walk away, as perhaps I should, sacrificing my comfort for his peace of mind.

“Oh,” I say, lightly, laughing, “much. Much was amiss when those dwarves came – Mithrandir brought dwarves here – dwarves of Erebor, as was, on their way to reclaim their homeland, to fight a dragon, if you would believe it – and you were not here to see that all was done well. It fell to Lindir, and to me, and – I do not think, my dear councillor, that you will be happy when you come to look through the records, and see how much was spent and used and wasted and broken in those days.”

He waits, listening to my silence, as I – I try to control my breathing, to sound as though that is all there is, to keep concealed what I do not have the words to say,  
“That is all?” he asks, “I thought – there were moments when I wondered – is all well between us, mellon-nin?”

“Of course,” I answer, and my treachery is like a dagger inside me – but better in me than in him, I tell myself, and I hope, I hope that I can deceive him, “how not? Unless – is there anything you would tell me of your time among Galadhrim?” and I raise my brow in conscious imitation of our lord.

He laughs, and I hope the sound is not as false as I fear it might be, I hope the forced nature is only in my hearing, my response, as I try, so hard, to dissemble, to act as I would have acted all those other times when he came home to me.

“What could I have to tell you? Galadhrim are as they have always been. Proud, cold, perpetually right, disturbingly enigmatic, and very beautiful. I was never left to comb alone, yet always I have wished for your hands.”

He leans back towards me, inviting more, and my heart aches within me at this undeserved trust, this innocence.

And I know, I know, that whatever it costs me, I must keep him safe from this. I must not let him know of this which torments me.

I would beg the Valar for help, did I not know I am forsaken.

 

 

I find it almost impossible. And I think – to others, I am the elf that did the impossible, that killed a balrog, that died and was reborn, that sailed East. 

If this is what I must do to protect my Erestor, then I will do this.

But it is so difficult.

I am not patient. I have never been patient. Yet now, now I find I need be patient, I need swallow the words I cannot say, the words I do not have, over and over again. I must stop myself when I want to touch, to reach out. I must not even think of what I long for, of that sweet – I do not know – was it kissing? What was it? I must not ask. It is not for me, not for us, and I feel – I feel as though I have been shown a door into – into a room full of secrets, and told I may not enter.

Before I knew there were secrets, I did not care, I did not feel as though anything lacked from my life. Now – now it torments me.

I feel the tension build inside me, I feel the anger, the cry for help, for justice, for – for mercy – growing until I think it will burst me asunder. 

I realise I am grown short-tempered, that I shout at my warriors, I throw my pen across the study, I rage at letters I need write, tasks I need do. I snap my words out, treating those around me as fools, making any council meeting short and unpleasant.

It is the day I find myself about to raise my hand to an elfling – to an elfling – what have I become, to what am I fallen – that I finally go to him.

“Erestor,” I begin, “I need time away. I am sorry. I cannot be here all the time. Even though there is no real cause, I need to take a patrol out. Can you find me an excuse?”

He looks at me, those great dark eyes contemplating, reading my thoughts – at least, I hope not, I do not want him to read my thoughts, please no – and answers,  
“I will think of something. Give me two days, and I will have something for you that our lord cannot argue with.”

I would thank the Valar for him – but that I know they do not listen to me anymore.

 

 

Getting away helps.

Being in a group, combing with others, with no personal bonds, just that of warriors – helps a lot.

When we find some wandering orcs, I discover that killing things – anything – helps even more.

 

 

Once again I acquire a reputation for recklessness, for skill, for – bloodthirst.

It is not one I would have sought. 

But I cannot have what I would seek. I know this, and if the swing of sword, the hiss of arrow, the sound of battle and the dying cries of my enemies can keep that longing from me – then my enemies can consider their days numbered.

And I find I can return to my Erestor cleansed, glad of his hands, of his voice, and for a little while I think of this dark want no more.

It does not last, and I must go out again and again, each time hoping I will return with my soul renewed. Each time my hopes are dashed.

I find I am glad of Erestor’s patience, that he waits, and his pride, that he asks not why.

 

 

The boys – boys they always will be to me – are always ready to go out looking for trouble. There are always others who need training, need experience in such matters. For this I am grateful.

Then there comes a time when, ready as others are, my lord sends me alone. He wishes me to spend time with some of the rangers, those mortal men who cling on to their inheritance as descendents of Numenor.

I shrug. I can live without combing for months, at need. What matters it to me who my companions are, so long as I can go out into the wild, kill, and be released, distracted from this pain? 

 

 

  
It matters quite a lot, I find, when after the fighting is done, I sit, a lone elf among men, and listen to them as they drink. At first, at first they are no different from elves, save that the drink affects them quicker, they laugh, they shout, they argue, they boast of what they have done in battle.

Then the talk turns to – I realise – what they have done in bed. Or, apparently, out of bed. And with whom.

I stay as silent as I have all evening. 

I cannot help but listen.

These men – these men, it seems, all know what I do not, cannot know. I listen to their boasts of how often, how many times, where, how loud she was, how she came back for more, and then – oh I thought I had heard the worst, but no. Now, now two of them leave the campfire, together, and I would think nothing of it, but their friends – their friends – are calling out, and laughing, and shouting advice, and the words they use – I cannot but understand.

These two are – lovers, as I think the term is. They – take pleasure in each other. 

I listen, and I find – apparently – one will mount the other. Will – in him – his mouth –and perhaps – his arse. 

There is much advice called out. At first, it seems jesting enough, good-natured, but – once the two are out of sight – their sight – and earshot – their earshot – the words turn – unpleasant. I understand this is not something these Men approve of. Something that many have turned to in need, in urgency, but to do from choice – ‘when we’ll be back in Bree tomorrow, plenty of girls there willing enough’ – that is, I hear, not expected.

It seems it dishonours both of them, but most of all he that is – I gather – the one to be mounted.

I do not understand, but I dare not ask. Surely if these two love – then why would they wish to – to find girls? Perhaps it is merely jealousy, I tell myself, but – no. The words are uglier. 

Soon enough they stop, and talk of other things.

I carefully do not look in the direction the two went, I do not try to listen. These Men constantly forget my vision and hearing outreaches theirs, and this is not the way I would have my lord’s captain appear, prying at others.

I cannot help but hear. When I take my turn watching, and pace to stay awake, I cannot help but see.

Not well, and I would thank the Valar for that, were this not some cruel jest on their part, but well enough.

Well enough to understand what is happening, to hear their pleasure, and – and to long for this.

But in the morning – I see the looks they are given, I hear the words, and I hope they do not, and I begin to understand something else. This – whatever the word is – not only is it dishonourable, but among these Men, it is something allowable only on campaign.

As we ride onwards, I realise that although I have not managed to leave this behind me as I would normally do, I have now more reason to keep to my resolve. If this is something that only dwarves can approve of – and how do I know that group were typical, how do I know whether those two were seen as less in honour – then I will keep my silence. 

I will protect my Erestor from myself.

If I burn all the long years of my life, I will do this.

I have burnt before, for those I loved not; I will do this for my beloved.

Whatever it costs me.

 

 

I find that I can keep my resolve, but the cost is not what I expected. It is not only I that suffers.

In my temper, my pain, my need, I lash out – not physically, never that, but with words, with cutting words of hate, of scorn, and I hurt my love. 

Again and again I do this. And sweet though the reconciliation is each time, each time I fear that this will be the last. That I will finally exhaust his patience, his pride, and he will walk away.

The fear has me wanting to apologise, but my pride prevents me.

Again and again I ride away in anger, only reaching to touch ears before I go in some semblance of affection, keeping to the story I have already heard told about us. Again and again the days of missing him change my pain, take the ache from – from some nameless sickness in my belly to an ache in my heart, a longing for him, and him alone. Again and again the slaughter of foul creatures exhausts me, that I can forget the darkness within, and think only of our love.

Again and again I come home to him, and he is there, is waiting for me, his hands reach out to my ears, we comb alone and all is well. As well as it ever can now be.

Until the next time.


	5. Chapter 5

There comes a time I am sent out alone again, this time to Bree. For want of any other company, for want of ease alone, I go into the common-room of the inn to eat and drink, and as I take my drink from the barman, I see him. One of the two rangers – one of the lovers. The more dishonoured one.

He is alone.

He looks – in as far as I can judge a Man – careworn. Lonely. Sad.

It occurs to me, for the first time, to wonder whether I could talk – I think in that moment all I want is to talk – to him. Whether there is any way he could – I do not know – give me some hope that I will find a way through this maze, out of this darkness. 

So I tell myself.

He looks up, he sees me, meets my eye, and, when I go to sit, he follows me.

“Forgive me, my lord, if I am wrong, but – do I not know you?” he asks, and when I nod, he continues, “you are the elf-lord – that made a journey with us once, are you not? When I was a ranger. Before I left.”

Ah.

“Yes, indeed,” I say, “But, tell me, how it comes that you have left? I was under the impression that a ranger is always a ranger. Indeed, so, I think, does my lord believe, and I would be glad to tell him the truth of it.”

He scowls, and I realise that this was perhaps not the best question to ask.

“In my heart, yes, I am still a ranger, but they want none of me now. It matters not why.”

I nod slowly, and then I cannot stop myself,   
“Your friend,” and I name him, “is he left also – you were so close, such good friends?”

“He married,” he says shortly, “and so is still a valued ranger, but no longer finds a use for a friend like me. So here I am, elf-lord, and at your disposal for the evening?” and his face asks a question.

A question I do not know how to answer. A question, I find, that I would dearly like to answer. 

And, in this moment, to my shame, I do not think of my own good name, I do not think of my lord’s House, I do not think of my sweet Erestor, I think only of my own loneliness, and despair.

“I would be glad of your company,” I answer, and seeing he has little left to drink, I finish my own, and buy us each another cup.

I am not sure how many more I buy that evening, and if I were thinking, I would be wondering how to explain this use of gold to my lord, but I am not thinking with any part of me that I know. I am enjoying this – I do not know the words – this talk, this dancing with words, this – is it – flirting? And for once, for once, not to be anything special, not to be ‘the Balrog slayer’, but simply to be looked at in this way which I do not quite understand, but which sends some kind of – shiver – through me, to feel almost prey and predator both at once, is a pleasure I had never guessed.

As the evening latens, he leans towards me, confidential, and asks,   
“Elf-lord,” for since he has forgot, I have retained the sense not to tell him my name, “stay you here tonight – or have you a room somewhere else?”

“I stay here tonight,” I say, “and you?”

He grins, as though we understand each other, and I realise how he has heard my words,  
“Aye, and me.”

And soon he is following me to my room.

It is only once we are inside, that I realise – I do not know what he expects, and I do not know how to ask, and I am not sure, not really sure, about any of this, but – but he is only a Man. I know I am stronger than him, I know I am in no danger, and I wait to see what happens.

“So,” he says, taking my hand in one of his, and reaching with his other to touch my face, “so, is this much the same among elves as among men, then, or do you have anything to teach me?”

I cannot meet his eye as I half-lie to him,  
“I daresay it is much the same, I – I am not very experienced in such matters,” and I wait again to see what comes next, half-longing, half-afraid.

Yes. Afraid.

I am afraid. Afraid of what it will mean if I do this – whatever he expects. Afraid of what I am calling on myself, afraid of what I will then know.

But his hand on my face feels so good. 

I reach out in my turn and touch him, and I do not tremble. I simply touch his face, and he smiles, and then he leans forward and his mouth is against mine, and – and nothing.

He tries, at least, I assume that is what he is doing, with lips and tongue, and then – and then his hands run over me, he is touching and pressing against me, and as I mimic his gestures, I feel he is lean and well-muscled, for a Man, I feel he is hard, as I had expected from what I had overheard, but – nothing.

All I can think is – he is not my Erestor.

And so I do not want him. I feel nothing.

I close my eyes, I tell myself, imagine it is Erestor in your arms, imagine those hands are his, imagine all that you long for can be yours.

But it is not my Erestor, the scent of him is wrong, the feel is wrong, the breathing, the little noises – that is not my Erestor.

I feel nothing more than sadness.

He realises there is something wrong, he pulls back, and looks at me, a question in his eyes, and I wonder if I have hurt him, if he needed this from me as much as I thought I did from him.

“I am sorry,” I say, “I – I cannot. You – you are very nice, but – you are not the one I need. You are not my love.”

His face crinkles in puzzlement as he answers,  
“You are not my love. What difference does that make? He – they – are not here, and we are. This is comfort, for one night, elf-lord, that is all. Will you not have the pleasure we both want?”

I look at him, and I find that for all his pain, his anger, his loss, I cannot but envy him a little.

“No,” I shake my head, “I cannot. I am an elf. It seems – there are things we cannot do. I am sorry. I thought I could, but no.”

He shrugs, and after a few more meaningless words, he leaves.

I wish him well. He has taught me more than he knows.

What am I that I would even think to do such a thing?

What kind of elf am I?

I burn with unfulfilled longing – but more than that – I burn with shame. Would I really have cast aside decades – centuries – of good and patient friendship, kindness, affection, loving even, just for one night of – of something I have no business to want? Something so shameful that I cannot name it, that even mortals do not speak well of it?

Ai. Forgive me, forgive me, and as I think the words, I wonder who I am asking? Hardly my love, for I will not confess to him, and place the burden on his shoulders. Hardly the Valar, for I am already forsaken by them.

My parents, and those of my House whom I alone am left to keep honour for down the long years?

Perhaps.

And that thought gives me a little courage. Enough to carry on once more, to raise my head and watch the stars, and try to think how to bear this.

All night I sit, and I think of my sweet Erestor, and I long, and I swear to myself, I will not hurt him. I will not let him see what I am becoming.

I can hide this.

I must.

 

 

But within a few days of being home – for Imladris has become home, these years of living there, with my love at my side – I am longing, and now I know only too well what it is I want. At eve, when we comb together, at night, when he is in reverie at my side, I have to fight not to remember that Man, not to remember his mouth, his hands, his body against me, but no, it is not the feel of him I am remembering, it is simply his actions. But I cast my sweet Erestor in his place.

Instead of the nothing I felt that night in Bree, I find I can feel this need, this want, this – desire.

And I must turn away, must pull away from him that I not show it, that I not lead him into this – this pit of despair where I am trapped. 

Then I find that in his innocence, his love, his kindness, he reaches out for me, thinking I need his comfort – and oh I need him so, but I may not have him, I must not even let myself think that, I do not need, I only want, and there is all the difference in the world – and so I pull away, and am cold, impatient, that he stop.

And I hurt him. Without raising a hand to him – I never would, please no, I will not fall so far, I will not – but just by my actions, my lack of response, my solitariness, I hurt my sweet love even as I try to protect him.

Soon, I am going to my lord, begging him to find reason for me to ride out.

Anywhere.

Away from here.

And if there could be the chance of battle, so much the better. 

For an instant, Elrond raises his brow, and I fear his old self is back. I fear he will see through me, see there is something wrong, perhaps even guess what it is, and insist on talking about it. As though talking could make this better.

But no. He is as confined by his own pain as I by mine, and so he does not question me. He simply nods, and mutters something cryptic about the time of elves ending, about there being not now long, and begins to explain some errand for Mithrandir. A search for a halfling.

I care not what the task is, I care not for the reason, simply send me away.

I have my orders, and in my relief, I do not think. I go to my room, I begin to pack my bag, I order my horse readied, and I am in the courtyard, agreeing with those who are also to be sent in other directions, before I think of my love.

In truth, I do not think of him then. I see him, stood at the doorway, as he has ever stood to see me go, and when all is arranged, I go to him, expecting the usual formal ear-touch that he prefers in the sight of so many.

“My lord captain,” he says, and I – even I – notice something different in his voice, “were you going to inform me of this latest errand? Or, seneschal, was it merely to be enough that I would notice you gone when I looked for my comb this evening?”

In my madness, I do not hear the words he is crying out to me, I do not understand I have hurt him, I hear only the coldness, and it bites into me, as he surely knows it will,

“One so self-contained will hardly care with whom he combs – or even if he does,” I say, adding, “fare you well while I am gone, and I shall endeavour not to importune you when I return.” I bow, in the court manner common long ago when I was young, and I turn away. I do not see his face as I return to my horse, but as I prepare to mount, I feel my sword at my hip, and I remember – this is no picnic ride. It is possible I will not return – and would I really have these years end so in undeserved grief? I close my eyes an instant, the better to find the words to apologise, to make things right, little though I enjoy the thought of giving so many onlookers so much scandal.

But as I open my eyes again and turn back, I see merely a swirl of his robes.

He has gone.

I ride away, bells merrily ringing, smiling face painted on.

I will not fall below my legend. For right now, it seems to me, my legend is all I have.


	6. Chapter 6

My Glorfindel has gone, as so many have gone, sent out in all directions to look for this halfling, who carries this Ring. 

I do not care about the others.

I am not sure I can remember to care about the halfling. Not truly, not as I should. 

I do not care that he was angry, again, before he left. I do not care that he has been impatient, bored, rough, these last few decades. 

I find – I find I do not care so much whether he wishes to be released from our vow. 

Eru, let him but come home safe, and I will speak, I will ask if that is what he wants. 

Let him come home safe.

 

 

Asfaloth has returned, bearing this halfling. But where is his rider?

Where is my Glorfindel?

I ensure is all done as it should be, that the halfling is carried inside, is cared for, that Asfaloth is made comfortable, that more elves go out to look for the halfling’s companions.

I do not let myself fall below the standard I expect from any other.

I see Lindir looking at me, once or twice, and I suspect he knows how I am feeling. He is not such a fool as he sometimes appears.

He is not foolish enough to say anything.

I am at my desk – where else – when he comes to me.

“My lord,” he says, out of breath, “my lord, you must come to the gates.”

I look up, I sigh;  
“Who now?” I ask, “we have an uncouth wood-elf, we have a wizard, we have our own people, we have some of the wandering elves, we have elves from Mithlond, we have Men, we have dwarves, what now?”

He looks at me as though I am mad,  
“Now my lord, now we have the halfling’s companions. And the lord Glorfindel. They approach – I thought – you would wish to be there when he – they arrive.”

I barely hear the last part. I am running, as I rarely run, to the gates, to be there. I would not have him look for me, and see me not, however we parted.

There are so many. So many come to see the arrival. I stand, I watch as he escorts all these – mortals – in. As he finds words for all those waiting, as he charms all, as he laughs, as he – acts out his part, his legend.

Then he turns to me.

“Councillor Erestor,” he says, “forgive me the delayed greeting.” And the formality in his tone is a slap in the face.

“My lord,” I answer, “there is nothing to forgive.” For truly, if you care not to greet me, why should I feel anger – only sadness, and loss, and a wish that I at least knew why things changed.

He steps towards me, and reaches out, as he has so many times before, and I find I am reaching out in return, and our hands are on ears, and I wonder if this is just an empty gesture, but I cannot believe it, and he leans close, and says so that none other may hear,

“Oh Erestor, there is. There is so much. I have been – unreasonable. Forgive me. Comb me again tonight, and let me comb you.”

And – perhaps all will be well, I think.

 

 

The House is full, I am busy, he is busy. He comes to me later, and explains he feels he needs to comb with the guards tonight. 

“I fear we may be needed soon, I must be with them,” and then, perhaps reading my face, perhaps because it is in his heart also, “I need not stay long. I – will you be here, later?”

I am tempted to say no. To say I have others I wish to comb tonight, that there is a group that, in some way, needs me. But really – how would that help? 

That would not be sensible.

Instead, I sigh.

“Yes, mellon-nin, I will be here. Later.”

 

 

And I am, and he comes to me, and we comb, and – I am glad he is well, but still – still there is this – whatever it is – between us. I stand, at some point I stand, and looking away, gazing out of the window, I speak, quietly,

“Glorfindel, I do not know what I have done to offend you so, I do not know what you wish me to do to put things right. If there is something – I would prefer you speak. If not, if it is just that you are – on edge – with all that is happening – then forgive me my doubts.” And I wait.

He stretches up for me, his hand in my hair, pulling me back towards him, and – he buries his face in my hair, against my neck, almost – almost nuzzling at me – and I wonder – is he afraid? Is it possible that Glorfindel, Glorfindel of all elves, can feel fear at the change that is in the air, the end of an age that is drawing near now, for good or ill? 

Quiescent, I stand in his embrace, waiting, and after a while – I know not how long – he manages a reply in words,

“You have done nothing. I said. Forgive me, I have been unreasonable. Mellon-nin, my most constant one, I am sorry that I am – capricious.” He pauses, and perhaps would be going to say more, but I cannot help it, I laugh,

“Oh Glorfindel. You are always capricious. Just – be happier with it, or let me share your worry.” And I turn, and we – we find that hands on ears, hands in hair, song shared – is a good way to avoid this unease.

 

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

The halfling is found, the Nine sent away – for a time, only for a time – the halfling, against all expectation, lives, my legend grows again, I enter a new tale – as if that were ever any comfort – and a council is called.

Talk winds endlessly around the point.

I think my lord has lost his ability to control a meeting – until I hear the halfling volunteer, the Dunadan leap to accompany him, and I wonder if that was always his plan. It does not do to underestimate any of the heirs of Earendil, in my opinion.

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

The Council takes place. 

I listen, I speak, I hear all that is said. I learn more than I expected of halflings, and I watch as a desperate plan is formed.

There is no word on who will be chosen for this fellowship. Yet – some elf will be, some elves perhaps, and – it seems to me I know who the obvious choice is. He will not speak of it, we have not many hours to talk before he is leaving, for many scouts are to be sent out, to gather news, and perhaps to not return. Neither of us wish to argue once more, and I play my part well, I send him off with braids fresh-done, with a touch to ears, and a wish for fair fortune.

If I watch until he is out of sight, and then – and then find I need go speedily to my rooms, and bury myself in work for some hours, if I emerge with eyes reddened by – by pouring over documents – if that is the case, who is to notice at a time when the House is so full, and busy, save perhaps Lindir. And he is no fool, to comment.

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

In private I go to my lord, I ask him who he will send on this quest – I ask in such a way that my willingness to go is clear. He looks at me, and says he will think on it, but for now, for now, he has another task for myself, for his sons, for any who will ride out as scouts.

I go, gladly.

For on my last return, my Erestor was as pleased to see me, as forgiving as only those who have worried can be, and although I was truly humble, truly sorry to have been so cruel, to have pained him so – still it is balm to my aching heart to see how much he cares for me, and if I go again so soon – perhaps we can manage to keep this peace between us. At least until the next time I am here.

I am resigned to pain in the future – but let it be in the future. Not today.

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

The days pass, and I find – I find I need speak to my lord, to know what it is, who it is, that he has in mind. I wait until I am in his study, speaking of lighter matters – of food, of drink, of customs that must be allowed for, with all these strange people staying, and when all the business is done, as I am gathering my papers, I ask, as though I care not,

“Have you thought which elf – or elves – you will send with the halfling? For many of the most hardy are still abroad, and if they are to set off again, it would be well if some, at least, of their preparations were made for them, before they return.”

He looks at me, and smiles that half-smile, raises one brow,  
“Erestor, do not try to deceive me with words. I know how things are, I know what you ask. Indeed, I had thought, Glorfindel would be the obvious choice. But – I do not know if he would agree.”

“He would if you asked it,” I say, lifting my head to meet those eyes, fierce in defence of his honour, “you are his sworn lord. Of course he would.”

Elrond makes a gesture, calming I suppose, with his hand,   
“You are right. Peace. I do not mean insult. It matters not, anyway. There is one who wishes to go, and who am I to say he should not – Thranduilion.”

I frown, remembering the elf as he was at the council – indeed, I have scarcely seen him since – so young he seemed, so – untried. Not at all as I would have expected any son of Thranduil to be, almost – if one could think it of that blood – unsure of himself. 

“My lord, why?” I cannot help but ask, “Is Legolas truly the right choice?” I do not wish to insult the – boy – but I wonder what skill it is he possesses that makes him so fit for this. “Is he skilled in healing, perhaps?” for I know some of those wood-elves are, as they have had to be, living in that dark forest. “Or is it that you think he knows more of the ways of dwarves and men, trading as they do with Esgaroth, with Erebor?” yet – he did not seem worldly-wise to me.

My lord smiles again, and looks across the room, gazing at something behind me,  
“No, none of those. He is a simple wood-elf, I deem. No more, no less. Yet, oftentimes, it is the one who chance calls who is the best choice for such a purpose. He – he has reason not to wish to return to Thranduil.” He continues to stare past me, and I find I must turn and look, meeting the painted gaze of the Lady Arwen. I blink, beginning to understand, and turn back to face my lord again,

“Thranduil had some additional purpose, some – alliance – in mind?” I ask, and as he nods slowly, I cannot but smile, “then – certainly. I would not wish to be the son of Thranduil, and have to give him the news that my suit was rejected for – for love of a mortal. Suddenly the Quest, the journey, the perils – might not look so very bad after all.” Another thought strikes me, “Who will you send to tell the Woodland King of this – that his son has gone, without his consent, journeying with halflings, Men, and – I suppose there will have to be at least one – dwarves?”

There is silence for a moment, and then Elrond holds my gaze,  
“Who but my most trusted and diplomatic advisor?”

I shake my head. 

“Oh no, my lord, no you would not ask –“ I stop. For yes, he would. Someone must go, and perhaps it would be better I than my friend, tactless as he ever is. I sigh, and bow my head in acquiescence.


	7. Chapter 7

When next I return, it is to find my lord has decided that this Thranduilion, this Legolas, will be the elf to go on the quest. Erestor implies to me that there is good reason for this – that the boy is not keen to go home.

“All well and good,” I say, “and indeed, I can understand why one might not want to face the wrath of Thranduil – although why his father should be so angry I do not know – but surely he could simply stay here a while, make himself useful in some way, perhaps learn something,” for he seems to me a very young, unknowing elf, “it hardly seems the best way to choose a candidate for something so very important.”

Erestor smiles, and his hands continue busy in my hair,  
“Oh I have missed you, my proud warrior. Let the poor boy alone. Our lord thinks chance the best way to decide these things, you know what he is. Besides – if the lad stayed here, it might only make his homecoming worse in the end. Thranduil wishes him to marry Arwen – has offered an allegiance – expects him to court her. You and I know that is not possible – she has given her heart already. But I doubt Thranduil will wish to hear his son is considered less desirable than a mortal. Poor lad.”

“Why poor lad?” I ask, disagreeably, “When I was young, to have one’s parents suggest a match with one so beautiful, so wise, so sought-after, would hardly be a reason for pity. Besides, no-one would make an elf marry against their will – even Thranduil – particularly Thranduil. I remember – you remember – the fuss there was when Oropher’s son took a jeweller for his wife, though she was one of the best warriors in Eregion. He would not be one to speak against true love.” I pull away, and stare out of the window, trying to express my anger, hurt and disappointment that this quest is not for me. I had hoped – I had begun to see it as a reason for my return. As a sign that perhaps I can be redeemed, that I am not forsaken. “And if the boy has not courage to face so tender a father as Thranduil surely must be – I cannot imagine him to be anything but doting to one who has the looks and mannerisms of his love – then what use is he to be on such a quest? Perhaps he should stay here, and learn from my warriors – or from Arwen’s maidens, if that is the life he is more fit for.”

I stop, shocked by the bitterness I am pouring on this lad, but my Erestor understands, as he almost always understands me,

“You think it should be you, do you not?” he says, coming up behind me, and touching my ears, encouraging me to lean back into his embrace, “Well, let me tell you, I for one am glad it is not. I do not wish you to leave again so soon, or for so long, or on so dangerous a path. I would have you here, and if there is to be fighting before the end – I would be at your side once more.” I feel the tears start in my eyes at his courage, his honesty, and I cannot answer. He breathes, and then, “Do not blame Legolas for what is, in reality, our lord’s decision. Maybe you could even try to help the boy – pass on some of your famed skill and courage?”

I remain silent, and before long, his hands begin their work on me again, and the evening slips into night, our combs busy.

I love him. 

What he offers must be enough. 

But – is there no hope for me?

 

 

Within days I can feel the tension twisting in my throat, I can feel my longing coming between us, the lies piling up as I avoid his hands, as I keep our time together as short and as rare as it can be, hurting him, hurting the one I love, but I do not know how else to hide, afraid as I am that he will read something – something wrong in me. Afraid that would hurt him more. Afraid to see the horror and disgust I know I deserve in his eyes. I find I throw myself into time with my warriors, and with those who will be going on this quest – my quest, it should be mine, why is it not mine? 

In my darkest moments, I begin to wonder if it is that I am no longer worthy to fight, to protect and serve. 

But I can at least make myself responsible for preparing those who are, for encouraging them to spend time together.

I find the halflings are a lost cause. They are pleasant enough, and I daresay will come into their own when there is hiding to be done – or indeed, befriending of those they meet along the way – and perhaps they have the dogged determination, blind to the future and cost, that will be needed – but they are no warriors.

Aragorn – Estel as he used to be to us – I know, I have trained over the years. There is little more I can teach him, and I am not at ease with his ranger’s garb, not now.

Boromir – he fights well, in the manner of men, he has something of that of which bold heroes are made. I envy him his confidence, his wholeness of spirit, and I cannot help but remember when I too was a commander, defender of my city, strong in my well-earned pride and looked up to by my people.

At least, until the day he turns to me, as we clean our weapons, and says,  
“So the legends are true, you are indeed a warrior different to other elves. Stronger. Taller. You served your country well, and I grieve for you that your sacrifice did not save your home.”

I shrug,  
“Many lived, many escaped that day who otherwise would not have done. Besides, that is all over long ago, far away – do not speak of it in these days; in truth, I did not stop to think.”

He smiles, and looks away, and then,  
“No. One does not. There – there is a certain – purity in battle. A purpose. A clarity of vision. It is only all the rest of life that is hard,” I wait, wondering if he is hoping for some words of comfort, then he speaks quietly, “at least elves need not marry if they have no mind to do so.”

Quietly I answer,  
“At least Men understand themselves, and know what they would have, even if it is forbidden.” And as our eyes meet, I recognise the look of one who is trapped, his honour fighting against his desire, and I wonder why some of us are given such a hard path to tread. 

We do not speak of it again, we have hardly spoken of – it – here, but it is something, and I feel comforted, a little, by his strength, and I only hope I have given him something in return.

As for the other members of this company – the dwarf is already a skilled warrior, and although I am interested to watch him, there is nothing I can do for him, beyond allow him as much practice time as he wants, and as many of my elves to spar with as he will have. The elf – Thranduilion – Legolas, as he prefers – he is indeed a fine shot, more like a Silvan than any Sindar, with his bow and knives. He does not even carry a sword – I ask, and – how young he is – his ears flush, and he looks down as he answers,

“I – I do not like the sword – it is not a weapon with which I have ever become skilled.”

I cannot conceal my surprise as I say,  
“But your father – Thranduil is such a master of it – has he not passed on his skill? Little as I know of being a father, it was my own who taught me, and even now I have so many happy memories of our times. Then it was I first learned all a warrior should know,” I laugh, “especially how to lose. But I cannot imagine – has Thranduil become so enamoured of his subjects that he uses their weapons?”

His flush deepens, and he stumbles over his words,  
“No – no indeed, my lord – no. My lord king would be most – most displeased were I to allow you to think so. He – my lord king – is very much a Sindar – but – but I fear I am not.”

Interesting, I think. But the poor elf looks most distressed, and I wonder if I have touched on something deeper than I knew. I remember, suddenly, this talk of his fear of returning to his wood, and I determine to be kind.

“Well, we have few so skilled with bow, or with knives here. Doubtless that will be why my lord wished for you to be part of this company,” and the smile that lights his face as he looks up, the shine in his eyes at such uninspired praise, tells me more of his life than he knows. “Truly, I hope the Valar guide and protect you on this journey, and perhaps bring you safe back here, one day. But now – prince – would you do me the honour of more time sparring with you before you leave? I would be grateful to learn your ways, and I think in fine preparation must be your hope.”

And oh the sweep of lashes downward over eyes, the flush, the pretty flush of ears, and the look back up at me from those sapphires, blue as no Noldor-eyes are blue. Something in me jolts, and I wonder, for an instant, whether many things are different in that strange, wild Forest he calls home. 

Reason tells me no, Silvans are elves as much as we. He sees only ‘the Balrog slayer’, the hero, the untarnished warrior. He does not see me, flawed as I am – but even my Erestor no longer sees me as I am, I think, because I have hidden myself from him in my fear and shame. 

Still, I make myself nod, and smile, and walk away. I will not attempt to – to what? Seduce Thranduil’s son? 

And thereby risk another kin-slaying?

The thought makes me laugh bitterly, and I daresay I gather some strange looks, but how could I seduce him? I do not know what it is I want, not fully, and besides – one thing I do now know – without love, there is nothing for elves. 

Yet this – this shame – is not something I will inflict on the one I love.

 

 

My lord calls me to his study, he would speak with me.

“Seneschal,” he begins, and I wonder for a moment whether I am to be called to account, has something caught up with me, but no, it seems this formality is merely his way of showing that I hold a position here, for he continues, “it is not that I think we will have no need of you these next months, it is more that I think it might be a courtesy, having borrowed Thranduil’s son for this quest, to send him in return a renowned warrior. You remember Oropherion, he is not one to let his pride wither from lack of nourishment, nor does he appreciate others doing so. He may not wish you to stay, so proud, so content in their isolation are his people, but I think it would be wise were you to be prepared to do so, to fight at his side – for the battle will doubtless come to them, while it may not to our borders. My messengers – as you know, my captain – so far have I have managed only to send word that his son will not yet return, I have not been able to explain the purpose of this quest, and I have had little in answer. I fear the King is offended, and I would have him understand. Will you go?”

“Alone?” I ask, before I can stop myself, and he looks down, as though to examine a list of those who might accompany me.

“Yes, indeed. Alone. I did not think that would cause any problem – although I suppose, if it were your wish – I daresay – he would not like to hear me say I could do without him, and I would be reluctant to strip Imladris of both captain and wisest councillor, but –“

“No,” I interrupt, “no, my lord, alone is no trouble to me. I meant – I meant to ask did you wish me to take Thranduil a troop of warriors – implying the skill of his son to be great?”

He smiles, sadly,  
“I think it is unlikely that Thranduil will care at what strength we value his son. If I know him, and I may not after all these years, it is the very fact that Legolas is his son that gives him value – and indeed that will be the reason he assumes we value him not at all, arrogant Noldor, and boorish peredhel as he sees us.”

I nod, knowing he is right, but – I still prepare to go with a light heart. Whatever else happens in that Forest, I will not be here, wounding my Erestor with my unreasonable anger.

This time, this time I am in control enough to speak before he hears it elsewhere. When we are alone together, combing, and glad I am to be with him, and impossible it is to be with him,  
“I am to leave. Our lord would have me go to the Woodland Realm, give Thranduil the news of his son – you must know none of our messengers have been able to speak freely with him – and – our lord wishes me to offer my sword to the Elven-king.”

There is a small noise, and were it not Erestor, I would say it is a gasp of pain, of hurt, of betrayal – but Erestor is not one to react so. I know this. I have tested him often enough, these last decades, unmeaning, yet cruel.

“Would – would you have your comb returned?” he asks, and now it is my turn to hide the noise of pain I cannot help but voice.

“Would you wish to return it? To have yours likewise?” I ask, and I am grateful for my pride that I do not go on my knees to him, and say not that, please, please not that. My knuckles are white with gripping his comb that we speak of, even as I keep my face hidden from his view – as he does also.

“Wish it – no. But – if we know not whether we may ever meet again – it seems right to me to offer you the choice. And glad I am that our words to each other have always been – partial. That you are free to comb with those you need.”

“As are you,” I say, but then think of what he has said, “but – I would not expect to stay long. At least – if all goes well – I will return. And if not – who can say what will happen to any of us? I – I would hope to return even in that darkest case, for I – I would fight at your side, die with you, if die I must – but – “and I laugh, “but I confess – I had foolish thoughts of sweeping you to the havens, riding the both of us on my poor Asfaloth, ere it come to that.”

He laughs too, and I suppose it is partly from relief that he does not voice his insult at the picture I am painting,

“Poor Asfaloth. Mellon-nin, I think I could at least ride apace with you, even if I cannot fight to quite your exalted standard. I will keep your comb then, against the day you return, with tidings good or ill bearing you along like the wind – keep you mine.”

And he embraces me, and so tired, so worn am I, that – that the embrace is as chaste and loving as any elf could wish for.

We manage this time to keep our peace, and I depart with a loving, though still formal, touch on my ears, and his voice in my heart.


	8. Chapter 8

The journey is much as any journey. I ride fast, I follow the road, and find my way with no difficulty, though I have not been to this Wood before. I cross the mountains, and think not of the distance I can see, of the lands I will likely never visit laid out before me, but only of the one I leave behind. I meet strange peoples, and they are not real to me. I am alone, yet not, for he is always in my mind, always I hear his quiet sarcasm, whether over a boorish trader, or myself, drinking deeper than I should, and regretting it the next day.

I miss him.

I admit it to myself. I miss him, I love him, I no longer can be content without him.

Yet – I can barely be content with him, for all our love, our combing, our song. None of it is enough anymore.

As I ride, I try to let myself think only of the good, of what we have, of days of peace, but all the time the question is in my mind – what next? When I return, what will be different – and what the same? Will I be able to learn to push this away – or will the darkness be forever part of me now, will I never be able to be content with him again?

And – I face the thought – if that is so, should I release him? Cause him pain for a while, but give him the hope of a future, of – perhaps not another love, even for Noldor that is rare, but at least a life of content alone. I do not know, I honestly do not know if that would be kinder than to continue to fight without reason. 

It matters not. 

I do not think I have the courage.

It would, I reflect, make him laugh, that I – I of all elves – should be so ready to admit myself lacking in courage. But I do. I cannot be without him.

This – this journeying – knowing he waits for me – seems to be the nearest to contentment I can now imagine, and even that is perhaps unfair to him.

Enough.

I should be preparing myself for meeting Thranduil, Elven-king of Mirkwood, of the Woodland Realm. An elf I have seen on the battlefield, long ago, fighting to relieve the besieged of Eregion. An elf whose sword-skill was truely breathtaking. As was his beauty. And, I remember, his biting sarcasm.

An elf I remember falling in love, at first sight, as elves are prone to do, across a battlefield, touching ears with her, declaring himself so plainly in view of all, caring nothing for his dignity, his reputation, had she not felt the same. 

An elf who I saw then, golden and alight with happiness, fighting at her side, both of them counting the orcs they slew. A competition it was, I remember, and when we asked what the prize was – it became clear that was not for others to know.

An elf I saw exchange those secret looks, those glances that lovers exchange. An elf I saw ride away from all the conflict, the arguments, the failing kingdom, saying he was needed by his father – an elf I suspect left simply to find peace and enjoy his time of love.

An elf I saw, in the distance, on the plains of Dagorlad, still beautiful, still golden, still with his warrior at his side, still loyally following his father, and this time leading his own son. An elf whose people loved him, and would follow him to whatever end.

An elf who left that field an orphan, grieving for his eldest son, with but a tithe of his people still standing. 

An elf whose people love him still.

An elf who has stayed so deep in his wood that few other elves have been granted speech with him these many years.

An elf so formal that his own youngest son refers to him as ‘my lord king’.

 

 

An elf who, it seems to me as I stand before him, as I kneel, and explain my visit, as I give my lord’s message, as I offer my sword, an elf who is indeed almost lost inside the carapace of the Woodland King, cold and deadly.

Expressionless, he listens to me without interruption, he merely raises an eyebrow when I speak of his son’s prowess with his chosen weapons. I fall silent, I have said all that I was told to say, and I know not what more he desires to hear.

“So,” he says at last, “you would have me believe that Elrond Peredhel has sent the renowned lord Glorfindel to me as a messenger? Such a one to journey here merely to report on my foolish and wayward son?” he puts his head on one side, as though considering me, and, “You will forgive me if I say it seems unlikely.” He makes a gesture, and I see he needs not even voice the command – the elves in attendance instantly begin to leave. As they do, he makes another gesture, an elf approaches him, and coolly he says, “Arasfaron, you will wait until I have spoken with our guest. He will doubtless require a room, and food. I assume his horse has been cared for – but it is now your charge to ensure so, and to act as his guide while he is with us. Do you understand me?” there is an exchange of looks, and I wonder what, exactly, it is that Arasfaron is to understand.

Whatever it is, he retreats to the edge of the room, and waits alone. The King rises from his languid position on his throne, and walks towards me, where I kneel still.

“Oh get up, Glorfindel, you pay me no homage, and I know it. Now, tell me the truth. Why has Elrond sent you? What is my son truly doing?”

I nod,   
“Indeed, my lord, you are right. The story I was to tell before your court is not the whole truth. The son of the steward of Gondor doubtless needed not an escort to find his way home – but that seemed the closest to truth that we could risk discussed. I am sorry, it is not my wish to lie to you, nor to your people – but I do not know your realm. There is come into our hands – that is – not our hands, not Imladris, but into the hands of the enemies of the Dark Lord, a weapon – a weapon he greatly desires, and fears lost, yet pursues even now. Strange it is, for it must have resided here, in company with its bearer for many days, and in that time I think your Forest still suffered the presence of the Necromancer, as we then called him. How much effort he might have saved himself, how much he might have ruined had he acted then, and seized the halfling Bilbo son of Bungo.”

There is no answer, and I see the brow raise again.

“It seems to those who know such things, to those who took council together in the Halls of my lord, that the only thing to be done was to destroy this – Ring,” and I hear his breath catch as he begins to understand.

“That could only be done in the fires where it was forged. So,” his hand clenches on nothing, “not content with being party to the betrayal of my people, the death of so many so long ago on those plains, not content with losing me my father and my first-born – and my wife in her grief – your precious lord, your peredhel would now send my youngest son on this hopeless quest.”

“It was not like that,” I begin, “your son – he volunteered, he would have no other go, believe me, your majesty, I would have gone – “

“Do not tell me such lies,” and where another would raise their voice, I notice his becomes quieter and more threatening, “that child – that foolish elfling has never volunteered for anything in his life. At least,” his gaze slides away, “not without his leader to follow. I will not believe he would not come home to – to the Forest. I gave him no leave to do otherwise.”

“I daresay being well past his majority he decided he was able to choose for himself,” I begin again, though in my heart I remember how young he looked, how young he seemed, how vulnerable, how easily persuaded to anything he perhaps was.

“Do not speak to me of the age of my own child. I know him, I know him, last scion of the House of the Golden Flower, better than you ever could,” he leans close to me, and the contempt in his eyes as he rakes them over me is biting, “and do not you speak to me of what a price we all must pay. I notice your lord sends not his sons on this quest. I notice there is no talk of any child of yours serving.”

“I have no child,” I begin, but he has not finished,

“I notice there is no sign of the elves of Imladris marching out to war, nor of their master bringing his – unnatural powers to aid those of us who fight,” and I realise he knows my lord holds the ring Vanya, how he knows, I cannot tell, but I think little escapes this intelligence, “and do not begin to tell me of your loyalty. I know it, all know it, all know your legend, ‘Balrog slayer’, how you burnt, how you died, and how you came back. Do not speak to me of pain and fire, do not speak to me of courage, I too have burnt to save those I love, and no Valar took my pain away.” And suddenly I realise this unchanged beauty is but a glamour, as he lets it fade, as I see the extent of his scarring, of his pain, his endless pain – for that will still hurt, I can see it must, that injury is beyond the words I have.

There is silence, and I wait until his glamour is replaced. Then I kneel once more,

“King,” I say, “I cannot answer for my lord’s decisions. I only know what he has told me, that his sons have another road to ride, that our land has little to offer in battle, and that his skill is in healing, not in fighting. I am here to offer you my service, while this time lasts, and I think my lord believed that was the best he could send you – proud though that sounds.”

He stands for a moment, unmoving, then turns away, in a sweep of robes, and paces back to his throne, a wave of his hand telling me I am dismissed.

I rise, and walk towards the waiting Arasfaron, but before I follow him from the door, I speak again,

“I can tell you, however, that your son came not home because he was afraid to tell you there would be no wedding for him, that my lord’s daughter is already betrothed to one who may one day be King of Men.”


	9. Chapter 9

I do not see the King – somehow, here it is impossible to say Thranduil, here he is the King – again for some days. I begin to wonder whether I am supposed to simply go. I daresay were I a more sensible elf, I would leave, happy enough to return to my home.

As it is, I am too proud to do so. 

It is pleasant enough in this Forest. There is no sign of the great spiders I have heard tales of – I wonder if it is the wrong season, if perhaps they are active in autumn and spring, rather like the small common spiders my love often watches weaves their webs among the – flowers, I do not know their names – in the gardens. Or if the halfling has exaggerated when he tells his stories.

The Forest is pleasant. It is strange not to see the sky, not to feel the wind, nor rain, nor snow, to pass days underground, and see no further than a spearcast when one does venture out – the trees are so thick together even here near the palace. But, I find, wine is wine, food is food – I had heard strange things of Silvan eating habits, but whatever the truth, here in their Sindar King’s palace, the food is perfectly usual – elven song is elven song – again, it is perhaps a little different, but not worryingly so – and, above all – combing is combing.

I find I am much sought after. It is pleasant to be so free of responsibilities, to be able to choose my own group. Silvans, it seems, are much as any other elves in this – there are war-bands, whom I may not join, and indeed I would not wish to, so closely are they bound – but otherwise, most elves pick up with friends, changing from day to day, unless they are vowed to another.

It is some days before I understand it is my hair that is intriguing them all so. The only hair in this kingdom that is not a Silvan shade of red is that of the royal family – I had thought there were other Sindar here, but not now, apparently. Gone or married in, I suppose. I wonder what they would make of my love’s dark hair. 

I meet the other princes, and I find them – as proud as their father, as cold as their king, as unforgiving as their mother. I remember her – not well, but I do, and she was not one to suffer fools or their insults any more than the elf she married. 

But these two – they have not the wit that redeems their parents.

Time passes, and I wonder again if I should return to my home. 

I tell myself it is hardly the season for travelling. Erestor would not expect me to return in midwinter. 

Somehow, in this land of elves, I find I can forget that which troubles me. Perhaps it is that the stars are hidden from me – and I from them. No more that piercing gaze that reminds me I am cast out, fallen. No more that cold promise of the Valar – that promise that is no longer for me.

Perhaps it is simply that these Silvans with their strange red hair are not to my mind beautiful. 

And they drink so heavily as a matter of routine. My body is quiet, no more of those raging dreams, those longings.

I like this Forest.

 

 

Time passes.

Deep in this Forest there is no sign of Spring. 

I wonder what is happening out there in the world.

I think of my love, and I wonder if he thinks of me.

That is unfair. I know he thinks of me, and I feel guilt for staying here. But – I feel right here. This is where I should be at this time.

One day I ride out with some Silvans. The group I combed with last eve. They are pleasant company, they care not whether I remember their names, or their ways, they laugh and sing.

And drink.

And, when an arrow hits one – he dies.

He falls from his horse, and he dies.

Instantly.

Suddenly we are all sober. 

“Yrch!” one cries, dropping into his own tongue, and he is right – it is unmistakably an orc-arrow. 

There is only a moment for thought – now we can see the pack bearing down upon us. He who died was probably the closest these Silvans had to a leader of this group.

“Ride!” I say, and as they look at me, as I see they are about to argue, they want to fight, they want revenge for this death, “Ride now, take his body home for his honour, ride – you fools – your king must know of this.”

The mention of their King invigorates them, and they turn. Only one stops,  
“What of you – you cannot fight that many? You are our guest – we must protect you,” and I realise that her words would indeed be enough to keep them all here – in their simple ways, the rule of guest-friendship outshines all other obligations.

“No,” I order, and it is an order, though I have no right to command, “I have fought more than this alone, you know it, you know who I am. Go. I will follow.”

This time they listen. They flee, wisely, and I – I am in my element. 

No twins to protect, no soldiers to command, no slow-moving rangers of men to avoid, just I, and a pack of orcs.

It is, I sometimes think, the only time when I truly know I am alive, and whole, and have worth.

 

 

As I come to the last breathing orc, already wounded, unable to rise, unable to flee, I remember that Thranduil is likely to want more information than I can give.

I look at the creature, and for a moment I debate the best way to get it and what it knows to the King. 

In the end it is simple enough.

 

 

They must be watching for me, the gates open as I approach. There is someone ready to take my Asfaloth and care for him, while I take my burden to the King.

I walk into his throne room, I do not wait to be announced, I do not wait for him to come to me. He is speaking with those I sent home, I suspect for a moment he is rebuking them – but then I see no, he is kindness itself, he is praising their speed, their obedience, their accurate recounting of events – and above all, he is mourning their lost one with them.

He sees me enter, and with a slight – very slight – movement of one finger, he tells me he will be with me as soon as is possible.

I lower my burden onto the floor. It is still attempting to squeal, but I covered its mouth some miles back.

Thranduil turns towards me as his elves leave off speaking. He looks at myself, covered as I am with black blood, glowing with health and joy as I suspect I am, and at the bundle I have dropped.

His eyebrow raises,  
“Why, lord Glorfindel, you brought me a present. How kind.”

And for an instant the young Sindar I knew looks out at me, his humour never dulled, always dark.

I feel my mouth quirk in return.

“Lord King, I knew you would be sorry to have missed the fun. I apologise I could not bring enough for you to equal my score, but this is perhaps a token – to enable you to show me your swordwork.”

Indeed, his sword is at the creature’s throat as I speak.

“What did you here, in _my_ kingdom? In _my_ Woods. Attacking _my_ elves. Speak.”

It rolls its eyes, and laughs a little,  
“Why?” it gasps, “do you threaten me, elf?”

His sword traces over the bloody mess where once this creature had limbs – but I would not burden Asfaloth more than I need. 

“No, indeed,” he says, so cold, so disdainful, “I think there is little one could threaten. I ask to give you chance to gloat, as you creatures love to do. And also – because I am an elf,” he tilts his head, “I am kind. Speak, and I will ease your pain, you will live in peace. Elves are wondrous healers, when we choose, with our magic. You know this.”

It blinks, and I wonder whether it is stupid enough to take the bait.

“We come,” it laughs, “we come. The time of the elf is over, the time of Men is over. Now is the time of the orc. We were told. Big battle,” its breath is rasping now, from the effort of speech, “then all this ours. All to burn. Take Forest, take Mountain, burn Men, burn dwarves, burn elves. Burn and eat. Ours.”

“When?” he asks, and his sword is at its throat, 

“Soon.” It says, and I suspect it knows no more than that.

He waits a little, looking down, cold as ever, watching to see if there is more. 

Then with just a small, graceful gesture – the sword pierces the creature’s throat. 

He turns back to me, and, as he cleans his sword upon its body, and resheathes it, says,  
“And now, I suppose, the great Glorfindel, chivalrous elf that he is, will rebuke me.”

I meet his eye, and shake my head,  
“Lord King, you know me not at all. Chivalrous elf that I am, I took him prisoner and then de-limbed him for the ease of my horse. I have seen too well what these creatures can do – did you ever meet the lady Celebrian? I brought him to you merely for you to ask the questions you needed, as any of your warriors would,” I pause, and then, “besides, lord, you eased his pain – he feels none now. As to whether he lives in peace now, I know not, but his last moments were full of hope. And that, I deem, is what makes a good death.”

He half nods,  
“Well, you would be the one to know,” he says, and then, “I thank you. I believe I owe you for the lives of these my warriors. Yet – I believe also you would be a fool to leave now. Stay then, fight at our side,” he sighs, “doubtless you will still be home before my foolish son appears.”

And as I bow to the King, as I understand I am more than happy to serve such a one, I understand also that my words of his son’s fear hurt the father more than I – childless as I am – can really comprehend.


	10. Chapter 10

The next days are a revelation to me. I have thought of these elves as somewhat simple people, concerned only with wine, with food, with song and dance, with combing and laughter. 

No more than the elves of Imladris, I find. When there is need, they all can put off such light matters, and take up their bows. Their bows which they use with such deadly effect that I – I feel outclassed.

I am not used to such a feeling.

As I am watching their practice one day, for I have ceased to even try – the best use for me in the arrowstorm phase of any battle, I am convinced, is to keep well out of the way, and hand arrows to those who cannot reach their own – the King comes over to me.

“My elves are skilled, are they not?” he asks, and I nod,

“Indeed, lord King, I understand now whereby your son is so proficient,” I answer, and realise I have perhaps said the wrong thing when I see the freeze come over his face. Suddenly I remember the glamour, and I realise – partially sighted as he must be, there is no way he can possibly have taught his son to use that weapon. “I did not see him with a sword,” I add, trying to compensate, “is he also skilled with that? I remember you long ago – and also –“I am about to add ‘your wife’ or even ‘Calenmiril’, about to refer to the mother of his son, when he breaks in,

“No. My son – my youngest and most foolish son – is the only one of them to have little skill with a sword. Yet another way in which he refused to learn from my life – he would run off to do the bidding of Elrond Peredhel, and he did not even take his sword.” 

There is silence for a moment, save for the flight of arrows, and I wonder that he does not care that these elves hear every word he speaks. Then I realise. He spoke to silence me, after all these years he still cannot bear to even think of her. That glamour conceals not only his physical pain, but also his grief, locking away the twist of his face, the pain that must be etched into him by all these years of loss and longing.

And I wonder what the loss of my love would do to me. How shall I bear it when he sails – as in the end, all Noldor must – and I cannot?

For the first time, I realise that is truly the only end to this. That or the death of one of us, and I cannot wish for that.

Oh my sweet Erestor. 

One day you will leave me, and I – I will not even be able to tell you why, and so you will go, thinking I care nothing for you, and the pain for both of us will be beyond what I can imagine. 

Why then, I ask myself, why then am I here and not with him while still I can be?

 

 

But it is too late. As the King said, I would be a fool now to try to travel. War is upon this kingdom, and I am caught up in it.

At first, it is skirmishes, like to that one I was caught in – and it is a joy to me. Day after day I can ride out, and fight, and kill, and know that I am alive and I have value.

These wood-elves are wise, I think, they do not cease their drinking and feasting, they simply organise themselves, so that at any time there are those who are out on patrol, those who are ready to fight, and those who are – relaxing. I suppose it is an advantage of such large numbers, of living underground, of being so very much – a colony. These elves think of themselves first as part of their group, and as individuals second. They even speak that way, I have noticed, often starting a discussion with the phrase ‘what does the group think?’. 

It is strange to me, for no Noldor would ever think so, and I wonder suddenly how that prince fares, alone among not-elves, alone with no Silvan group to support him. 

The skirmishes build, becoming longer, becoming one senses, more planned, these orcs are hurled upon us with more purpose, seeking out weak points, attempting to find a way through.

I cannot fault the bravery of these Silvans, nor their skill. They fight, and fight, and give no quarter. Yet with all that – they find time to laugh, to drink, to comb. They do not let the battle become their whole life.

As for me – I love it. The moments when there is nothing else but sword in hand, careful footwork, that beauteous dance of death. And I find these Silvans are skilled here too – they understand, they dance alongside me, they too are laughing in their joy and their skill. Proud and glorious, they are, and their King above all. 

Too long it is, I think, since I had such a one to follow on the field, too long have I been the captain, in charge of all, caring for elves and strategies, when what I really love, what brings me alive, what is my reason for existence and my skill, is the dealing of death, the crunch of bone, the slicing through flesh and spatter of blood. And among these Silvans, I see that my wild delight is accepted, praised, revelled in – as it is not among Noldor, so wise and stately as these elves of later ages think they are. 

In this way too, I am old-fashioned. I am a warrior. I like to kill. 

Only my enemies, but – I like to kill. I am good at it.

And sometimes, sometimes these last millennia, surrounded by those who do not, who see it as a noisome task, necessary but distasteful – I have been saddened by the need to hide my battlejoy. 

Even the twins, my precious lads, they do not really understand – they think of it as a cleansing of the world, a duty. They enjoy it, they feel relief by doing it, but they do not and cannot glory in it – their father’s lessons of healing are too much part of them.

But I and these Silvans, and, I notice, this elegant Sindar – we love this.

 

 

At first we love this.

Even elves become tired eventually. 

Even Silvans become dispirited eventually.

There comes a day when the orcs seem more desperate than before, more reckless in their hatred, more cunning, harder to kill, harder to avoid.

Then it is that I see him, when all his elves are tiring, when so many are dead, when even I am beginning to wonder if it is time to retreat to his caves, I see him cry out to them, and his words give new life, new hope – no, not hope, there is little of hope here, just – determination. Will. The will to hold on, to survive. 

And I think – so that is what it is to be a King. Traitorously I know – my lord could not do that. Perhaps that is why he is my lord and not my king.


	11. Chapter 11

The battles are over, the fight is won.

One thing else these Silvans know – how to celebrate. It is clear there is to be a feast with much wine. And, I am promised with sidelong looks, Silvan delicacies.

“Delicacies,” I am told, “that we are rarely allowed to eat in our King’s presence, they being not something suitable for Sindar. Doubtless you, our Noldor guest, will not partake – but we shall enjoy them and the eating will make us stronger and more cunning than ever.”  
“Indeed,”  
“Yes, and with silkier hair,”  
“And better eyesight,”  
“And fiercer,”  
“And more forest-crafty, stealthy and fast among the trees,”  
“And better at the spinning of – tales.”

And there is much laughter from this group I am combing with. I can see I am missing something here, and I am intrigued.

“Perhaps – I am proud of my hair – perhaps I should eat this – this whatever-it-is,” I say, and now, I am not imagining the looks, they are up to something.

I care not. 

What do they know of the things I have eaten in my time? 

Someone said once, ‘that which does not kill me, makes me strong’. And indeed, when we crossed the ice, it was necessary to eat things I do not wish to remember. 

This – this whatever-it-is, and I have heard tales of these wild elves, I can imagine things it could be – they all look pretty healthy on it. The conversation passes on, and I forget it, in amongst the other matters.

 

 

Before this feast, there is another matter to attend to. There is to be a meeting with the Galadhrim – for I gather they have been fighting in the southernmost reaches of this Forest. 

For reasons he does not explain to me – and why should he – the King has decided to cede part of his land to them, and part to the woodmen, the Beornings. 

I cannot but wonder if the decision is related to the absence of the two elder princes. I do not ask, as I have not asked why they are not here fighting. But, it is interesting what one hears when one stays quiet.

“They will not come back for the feast. They do not care to see us dance and rejoice.”  
“They are best left in the north.”  
“They are not wanted by us.”  
“They might be by our King.”  
“Not by us though,”  
“No, not by us,”  
“We only want one prince,”  
“Our prince,”  
“Our sweet prince,”  
“Yes, we want our prince,”  
“But some of us want him more than others,” and there is a sidelong look towards the leader of another group. An elf I have not spoken much to, a group I noticed ever in the thick of the fighting. A group now so depleted they look forlorn. 

An elf so haunted, he looks forlorn. And I cannot but wonder what his prince is to him – and for an instant the vision of that blush, that tumbling hair and downcast eyes comes back to me – and I wonder if truly these wild elves have many secrets from other races.

None of that is my concern, and I do not think I would get answers anyway – wood-elves are indeed skilled at saying little when they choose. 

But I wonder if my sweet love is forlorn in my absence. 

Even as I wonder, I realise – none will know. My Erestor is not one to show his feelings, and certainly he will never speak to me any word which could be taken as rebuke, not when I have been, as we both see it, following our lord’s orders.

And a small, shameful part of me aches that he will not, so that – I do not hurry home, as I know I should.

Instead, I follow their King to these discussions with the Lord of the Galadhrim, father of my sweet lost lady. It is good to hear my own tongue again when he greets me, good to spend time in such formal surroundings and company, the courtesies of my youth observed.

I suspect this is the only way for Celeborn and Thranduil to keep this from degenerating into a brawl. Clearly their elves dislike each other – every day there is snarling and dislike radiating off both sides – and by the third day of these pointless discussions I am longing for my sweet love. My clever sour-tongued Erestor, who would have both these monarchs silent in seconds, their agreement drawn up, and signed and sealed with no loopholes or hanging clauses.

And I think – if my lord has such perfect foresight, why did he send me, not my love? 

I have drifted off into thoughts of my love, missing him as I do, realising that all is now well – the halfling has succeeded, it seems, and so – I can go home – I can see him again. And not just see, I can hold him, comb him, have his hands on me again.

Please Valar, let that be enough this time. Let me have expiated my sins, let me be forgiven, let my unclean thoughts be gone forever, and let me be content.

Suddenly I hear the ringing silence around me. For an instant, I think my thoughts have been aloud, and I am shamed – then I realise, no. I hear the last speeches of both lords in my head – and I understand. They are quarrelling – like elflings – they are quarrelling as to who killed the most foes, who killed the larger orc-chieftain. 

This is close to coming to blows. In a moment – I can see they are drawing breath, each to insult the other – Thranduil will drawl something so perfectly ironic, Celeborn will spit something so full of hate – the venom of years will be released – and all the goodwill engendered by this victory will be spilt and wasted.

I stand, drawing all eyes effortlessly to me, I blink my eyes lazily, I swish my hair, golden enough to stand out even among these elves, I look down at my curled hand and I speak,

“I killed a balrog,” I breathe on my nails, and polish them against my breast, then I look up, glancing from one to the other, “you are both so outclassed.”

And in the silence, feeling all eyes on me, knowing they will now all hate me, all believe in the arrogance, the complete self-satisfaction of the ‘Balrog-Slayer’, I pick my way carefully through the spectators, and walk away.


	12. Chapter 12

Later, I hear that discussions were concluded peacefully.

As preparations are made for the journey to his Halls, the King graciously finds a moment to speak to me, walking casually past as I am arraying my Asfaloth in his bells,

“Do not speak to me like that ever again, Glorfindel,” he says, and I can feel, as though it were there, his sword at my throat, then he raises his brow, and adds, “on that occasion – you were right to do so. I have never liked that elf, and I do not now. Nor do I like his teasing hints of what my foolish son is up to, and why he does not hurry home. If his – wife – knows something from her magic mirror, she should either have the courage to tell me, or to keep quiet.” He sighs, and I see again the father inside the King – and I wonder who else ever sees. “Come, it is a long ride, but there will be a feast to end all feasts – I would not have you leave our Halls without one great Woodland Party. Besides, I am told you are eager to try – my elves’ speciality.”

And were he not Thranduil, I would say he smirks.

 

 

I am seated amongst my Silvan combing friends when the speciality is brought in. 

Many of them. They are placed on the long tables – though not, I note, on the High Table where the King sits alone – and there is a moment when I think this is some glorious jest. These are marzipan, or cake, or some such.

Then I look at the Silvans around me, and I realise – no. These are wild wood-elves, and they want meat.

Roast meat.

And, if you live in this Forest, what meat is there?

Well, obviously there are deer, or squirrels, or fish.

But no.

These elves – want something more than that. Something that is more of a victory.

Giant spiders.

Roast giant spiders.

Dear Elbereth, these Silvans are going to eat – are longing to eat – roast giant spiders.

And I – I can hardly back down now.

 

 

Actually, it does not taste so bad. It is just the thought of it.

But – I see I am earning myself much respect from the Silvans, and I notice a small smile on the face of the King – and that is rare enough that I prize it, and after these weeks of fighting, I think I would do more than eat a spider to see him smile.

“So it is true,” I say to my neighbour, the loyal Arasfaron, who has indeed been always at my side these months, “you wild wood-elves eat spiders. And it makes your hair silky, your tales well-spun, and – I have forgotten the rest of it.”

He laughs,   
“Indeed, I do not think many of us truly believe such superstition. At least – we do not like to admit we do. Although when we are on patrol – it is a wonder what even a small spider, picked and eaten as we walk, can do to put heart into any of us. Our King does not really approve – I think his father never let us – but – he is a kind King, he knows us, he knows how we are – and these last months – “he sighs.

“These last months have been hard,” I say, keeping eating, keeping talking to save myself thinking too closely of what I eat, “he is a wise King to let you celebrate so well. I daresay there will be still more celebrations when your prince comes home.”

He looks away, and when I follow the direction of his eyes, I see once more the elf who they said wanted the prince home, 

“As to that, I could not say. That will be for the King to decide – it will depend on whether our prince has done well in his eyes.” He closes the subject, and although the talk is merry, the wine good, the singing and the dancing and, later, the combing all very pleasant – I cannot but wonder what the prince must do to have done well, if the fact of surviving, of coming home, of being part of that great victory is not enough.

But I have no child. I do not know what it is to be a father. 

It is not my place to speak.

Besides, what do I care for the family life of others? 

I can go home. The roads are clear again, the war here is over. I will take my leave, I will remember these strange Silvans with fondness, and their King with respect, and I will ride home, stopping only when Asfaloth needs rest – and I will go home to my love.

 

 

Riding fast through these lands, I do not stop to look for changes, I do not care. I want only to see my love again.

As the days pass, I think only of him, of the sound of his voice, of his wry smile, his incisive deconstructions of our lord’s often cryptic and rambling thoughts, of his biting humour which so many see as insult, and of the touch of his hands on my ears, the feel of his ears under my hands, and of our combing. And at night, at night I look up at these cold stars, and I swear again to them I will try – I will try so hard – I will not let myself fall back into that darkness. 

Please Valar help me.

I feel as though my time of fighting, my time away among those wood-elves has cleansed me, washed me of this stain.

Please Valar, this time let me stay clean, let me deserve his love.


	13. Chapter 13

Once more, I ride up to these gates, I enter, I dismount in the courtyard. Home. I fuss with my faithful Asfaloth’s harness, giving myself a moment to recover.

He is not there to greet me.

How could he be, I tell myself, it is not as though you had sent word when you would arrive. How could he know? You would not have him stand waiting night and day at the gates all these months, like some lovesick fool in a tale?

But inside, I know I would. I know I crave that reassurance that our parting was not ill, that he does not blame me for staying for this war, that he understands that I came as soon as it was politic to leave – not as soon as it was possible.

Eventually I run out of things to do, and I look up.

I look up, and there he is, and all is right in my world.

I go to him, ignoring all others – my warriors who wish to report and hear my stories, my lord who would hear of the King, his daughter who would discuss plans for her wedding journey, and all the countless elves who have things they need to tell me. But there is only one I would hear, and I go to him.

“Forgive me the delayed greeting, dear councillor – dearest advisor,” I say, “I had to see to my horse’s comfort first,” and I reach for his ears, even as he reaches for mine,

“I am glad to see you well,” he says, cold as ever, and then, “the House has been quiet without you. Delightfully.” And for a moment I am frozen, until I see the look in his eye, and I laugh,

“Oh my Erestor, how I have missed you,” and we stand there, as he smiles at last up into my eyes, 

“And I you, Fin, and I you.”

For the very joy of it, I would love to hold him to me, to whirl him round in the air so that his robes fly out around us – but I can imagine only too well the absolute disdain with which he would greet such a display, so I do not.

Afterwards, I think it is perhaps as well. Were I to get too close, were I to let go my elven restraint – I do not want to fall into that pit of despair from which I have only just dragged myself.

 

 

It seems I am returned just in time – the entire household is to set off within days to take Arwen to Minas Tirith. The packing and ordering of such an expedition is lengthy – although my lord, and his finest advisor have it well in hand, there are some matters they have not thought through – some matters that are my concern. With so little time left, for Arwen is determined to marry on Mid-Summer’s day, I find myself busy – and I praise the Valar for it, leaving as it does no chance for those dark thoughts to overtake me once more.

As for the journey itself – it is a strange cross between a triumphal joyous progress, an armed expedition, and a funeral march. Poor Arwen, I think, her father may not like her choice, but it is her own, and he could try a little harder not to look so miserable. Why ruin these last days?

After all, either or both his sons could have died in any of the skirmishes we have fought these long years, or indeed in this war to which he sent them so eagerly. He never looked so distressed by that idea.

Perhaps he should have married her to Thranduilion, and sent them both West.

But I daresay that is the old-fashioned elf in me. Many things were different in those days, and for the first time, I wonder if they were not always better. Maybe it is better for a daughter to choose – not accept, but choose – who she marries. Or a son. 

And I admit to myself, that had Gondolin not fallen, had my parents not been slain, had I not – died, then I, as last son of our House, I would have had to marry one of their suggestions. Eventually.

Then I would not have my dear love, my Erestor.

I had never thought about that before. I suppose because there was never much point, and – and because I loved my parents, and do not like to admit that they would, eventually, have given up waiting, and pressured me to marry and then love.

Perhaps these new elves, with their ways that still sometimes seem oddly changed – perhaps they have some sense on their side.

My thoughts and my duties occupy me enough that I manage to avoid the Lord of Lorien, and his Lady. I fear I may be less than popular, so I keep very busy, although I am not sorry when my boys come to find me, to ride with me, to tell me tall tales of their own prowess as we approach their sister’s home-to-be.

 

 

When we arrive – ah, when we arrive – all is rejoicing, and light, and happiness, and dancing. And wine.

Enough wine that even my lord looks, if not happy, resigned. 

“He will sail soon,” Erestor whispers to me one night, as we sit at another feast, “look at his eyes. He cannot bear to stay and watch her through the years, cannot watch another lost to the doom of men. Hard it was for him to watch his brother – to watch his daughter – it is not in him. Oh, he will find another reason, another excuse, but – that is why. He will sail.”

I shrug, as though it is of no matter, and speak of something else, but inside me a warning bell tolls. If our lord sails – when our lord sails – surely he will expect his chief councillor and his captain to sail too. And what will I do then?

Dare I sail?

Am I forgiven?

Or is this short time my last months of happiness?

I try to put it away from me, to think only of this time, this rejoicing, this end to war. I do not speak to any of how I enjoyed the battles; it seems not the time to say this.

As the days wear on, I wonder if it would be kind to tell Thranduilion of his home, of the victory feast, of how his father waits for him – of the care his father showed for him. I intend to, I do, but when I go to speak with him – whenever I go to speak with him – he is always with the dwarf. I have no wish to spend time with a dwarf.

I ask Erestor what he thinks I should do – after all, what is the point in having an advisor for a combmate if you do not ask him for advice – and he tells me he has seen Celeborn speak to Thranduilion – Legolas, he reminds me – and that Legolas did not look interested in the slightest. 

“I think,” he says, carefully measuring his words, “that having left the Forest, he finds he is not so keen to return. I think that may often be the case for children of – strong rulers.” He meets my puzzled gaze, and slides his eyes along to where the boys are holding forth to some gathering of impressionable youths, and I understand him.

I take his advice. I do not speak to Legolas – I have no particular message for him, and he does not seem to see any except the dwarf.

“They are close friends,” Estel – Aragorn – Elessar – tells us. And that is wondrous enough. But the day comes when I see Thranduilion looking after this dwarf as he leaves a room, arm drunkenly round some Man – and Thranduilion’s hand creeps, unknowingly, to his ear, and then he cards through his hair with his own nails. His face flushes, and his ears – oh his ears are burning.

Like a bucket of ice-water it hits me. 

The dwarf leaves to – be with – that man in that most dishonourable way. 

Thranduilion knows – something – of it – and wishes it were him. He is jealous. He longs.

And I suppose I should feel sympathy, for I know something of his need, I should feel kindness towards one who suffers as I have suffered.

But all I feel is hatred, for the thoughts push me into that well of desperation I thought I had escaped. Hatred, and satisfaction that his longing gives him no more peace or happiness than mine.

Relief too, that I am not fallen so far as he. I may long for – something which is forbidden – but at least I retain enough sense of myself to love one who is worthy of my love, worthy of more than I could ever give.

I am not whimpering and sighing over a dwarf.

 

 

All the joy is taken out of this time for me. I can think only of what I desire – though I still know little enough of what that is. I cannot relax into my love’s combing, for I can think only of what I would have from him, those touches which I cannot but try to imagine; I cannot listen to his song, for I can think only of how soft his lips would feel upon mine, how he might sound in pleasure such as neither of us has ever – will ever – know. 

I ache, and I know what for, and why. Yet there is nothing to be done.

I would not dishonour my sweet love by asking for this, and I am elf enough not to be able to – take pleasure elsewhere, as I understand mortals may.

My mood deteriorates rapidly, and I find I am become as unreasonable, as difficult and short-tempered as ever. We argue, and then we stalk away from each other, and then we calm down, and we find each other again, and I apologise, and all is well – for a short time.

Over and over again.

I am not surprised when he is the one with courage to speak.

“Glorfindel, mellon-nin, you are ill at ease – is it this city? So many Men? Or – I have only seen pictures, but – a city on a rock – is it too much like – does it remind you so of your home?”

I had not thought of that, but there is sense enough in it I seize at the excuse.

“I had not liked to own it – I would be ashamed for any other to know the unease it causes me,” I say, and I wait, knowing he will have a solution. He would not have mentioned the problem if he had not thought out a solution. That is how he is.

“I will go to our lord, tomorrow, and speak with him. Not of you, but of these many peoples who will be leaving here with him, and who he will wish to come to the House. It is only right that the House should be made ready – and we left very few there, none who will be capable of seeing to it alone. You and I will ride ahead, leaving as soon as may be, and we shall have such a welcome for all these folk as will be remembered.”

And I relax against him, and thank him for his care.

But these longings rise in me again, and I want to turn and press myself to him, and hold him so close, so close, and never let him go.

I do not.

I look up at the stars, and I beg them to help me.

 

 

The journey home would be torture, every day and night alone together, my mind full once more of what could be if only – if only. 

It would be torture, were we not elves travelling at haste.

As it is, there is barely time to comb and eat while the horses rest.

I am grateful for our – probably unnecessary – haste.

I am grateful that when we are home, there will be work to do. I mention, in passing, that of course I will still need to patrol regularly. Not all orcs will disappear instantly.

He agrees.

It saddens me to realise he accepts we need the time apart, even if he does not know why.

He does not deserve this. I should have freed him long ago.

But he is my One love. And I his. 

How can I free him? 

I look to the stars for help, but there is only coldness and a beauty far away that knows nothing of this pain.


	14. Chapter 14

“Well,” I say, as we ride in, “we are back. And nothing will ever be the same again.” I sigh, for the one we left behind, for the mortality she embraces, for the happiness we have seen, and, above all, for the ending of an age. Then I put it from me. “We have ridden ahead for a reason. Come, Seneschal, we have work to do. This may be the last time our lord entertains such a party – and I for one would not have it below standard.”

He laughs, and leaps from Asfaloth, but before he begins to fiddle about with his reins, his bells, he turns to me, and touches my ears, distracting me as I send my horse to his stable. 

“Councillor, there is always work. But I would have the first thing we do on our return be – be this,” and he runs his hands through my hair, disordering it, and I know I should be rebuking him, should be hasting to begin the work I have mentioned, but – his smile disarms me, and I laugh.

 

 

We are not many days ahead of Elrond, Mithrandir, the halflings, and all the party. We have time to put things in order, to prepare.

We do not have much time to talk.

He seems happy again, whatever it was has ceased to trouble him, as it does. I only wish I knew it would not return, but I am not one to believe in hope where the evidence is against it. 

It will return. As it always seems to.

The sensible thing is to take happiness when I may, to store it against the next time.

We are both busy throughout the time they stay, throughout this last great party of the House, if such it is. We both think it may be – our lord will wish to leave soon, to sail, and what then?

One evening we sit with our lord, with Mithrandir, and they are talking of sailing.

“Not just yet,” they say, “but perhaps – soon. Autumn after next, maybe. That would be a fair season to leave.” I nod, for autumn always seems the time for partings, and I feel Glorfindel stiffen beside me.

“Will you sail then, too, councillor?” he asks, cold and formal once more, and my heart sinks that I have brought on myself what I have feared, the return of this strange mood.

“I had not thought,” I say, “what of you? For surely you have many you would return to, that side of the sea? And –“ I bring myself to smile lightly, to meet his cold eyes, “and you must know that my decision would be partly guided by yours.”

The gamble pays off, for once the risk is worth taking. His eyes warm again, and as he leans forward to take up his winecup, he lets his hand brush against mine,

“Then, I would say, the West will be there in years to come. I would not wish this House to lie empty before its time, I would not force those who have homes here to leave before they wish. Perhaps, councillor, you and I should stay, keep this place a refuge for those who travel, for – some years.”

I nod agreement, and Elrond breaks in, not noticing, or perhaps dismissing, the silent conversation we are having with our eyes,

“I would be grateful if you did decide that – one or both of you – for my sons say they will not leave their sister,” ‘their sister’, I notice, not ‘my daughter’, not any longer, “until – until she needs them no more. And though their grandfather also intends to stay – I would be easier in my mind if two who know them so well were here.”

Indeed. Their grandfather is, at times, more loving than realistic about those two. And without his wife to keep him in check – who knows what foolishness the three of them could get up to.

What an enjoyable task this will be, to manage their whims, calm those they offend. 

Still, better than to sail, and find that in Valinor – in Valinor there are others waiting for Glorfindel, others who have known him longer, read his moods better and he no longer has a need to comb with me. The thought is in my mind, unbidden, unexpected, and – I did not know that was my fear. Yet, now I have voiced it to myself, I find it is, and I almost gasp with pain. 

I do not. I keep silent, and the conversation moves on.

But now I know something more about myself.

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

This last great party, this last welcome of all races to the House, is done, and done well. For all that our riding ahead was but a ruse, it was also worthwhile to see the satisfaction on our lord’s face when he returned, and all was well, no sign of those little slacknesses that had crept in with none to keep a watchful eye. I may be old-fashioned, I am old-fashioned, but for me there is still a deep pleasure in serving my liege-lord.

When he says he will sail within two years – warned though I have been by my love, I am taken aback. Without the House of Earendil to serve, what will I do? 

What will I do without my love, if he sails?

I let the coldness that washes over me at the thought show, and I feel his confusion, even as he speaks, even as he makes clear he will not sail without me. Oh my sweet Erestor, I think, you will have to one day.

But – not yet.

If our lord’s sons will stay, then that is a reason for us to stay also, a service, a duty none will question.

And I am glad of it.

 

 

The guests leave and life begins to find its new pattern. Many things are the same, many things different.

I am still unreasonable, and unkind, and desperate in my longings. 

There is no very good reason to go out on patrol, no rangers to go with, no elves keen to go.

I go anyway.

Sometimes I make my elves come out, as exercise, as a way to remember their old skills.

Sometimes I go alone.

Sometimes, and this becomes more common as the months pass, I set out alone, and then pick up with some group of mortals. It is a useful way to learn the news, I tell myself. Often I can feel a glow of satisfaction at helping some small caravan of harmless traders cross what can be a desolate tract of wilderness.

If I am lucky, they turn out to be not so innocent, bandits even, and I – I can glory once more in the righteous rage of a protector of the weak. 

I find, for mortals count time so differently to us, that I am soon known, looked for with hope, talked of, and that I rarely need to buy my own drinks when I go to an inn. However villainous the wine, for I will not lower myself to drink ale like a dwarf, it tastes better when those around me praise me, and hold me in high respect.

 

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

The months of the years pass. 

The world is changed – and yet not so very changed. 

The House is still the House, work must still be done. Yet – there is no daughter of the House, flitting about singing, or sewing, or dreaming, or asking for this or that. She was not my daughter, and yet I miss her.

I cannot imagine how her father must feel.

Patrols still go out, though with less and less urgency. There are still dangers out there – but there is a King to deal with them now. We are retreating, burying ourselves in this Valley. We care little for what is happening out there, so long as it comes not to us.

Perhaps this is how Silvans have always felt, it occurs to me.

Glorfindel, captain, seneschal, still leads many of the patrols. I still watch him ride away, I still wait for his return, I still greet him. 

One evening, as we are combing, he says, for no obvious reason,  
“Things have changed, Erestor, councillor.”

I wait, wondering what he means.

“It is still a small force, but – the dangers are so much less. It is enough to know each other on the training ground, in the dinner hall.” He stops, and I realise what he is trying to say.

“You are no longer – unable to vow?” I ask, and when he nods agreement, I lick my lips, and wonder if it is my turn to find courage.

His silence tells me it is.  
Suddenly I realise I do not know his father’s name. All these years, and he has only ever spoken of his parents as parents, as Atto and Amme. I can hardly ask now, though I make a note in my mind to look it up.

“Then, would you – Glorfindel – Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, for these many years you have held my comb, on days when you could, yet now – now I would offer it to you again, this time to hold forever, for I wish to comb and be combed by none but you – if that is your will, your desire also?” I watch his face as I speak, I see him smile as our fingers remain entwined, our combs, much talked of, lying forgotten on the bed, and he answers me,

“Erestor, Vanimedlion, as I have held your comb, so have you held mine, and as you offer me yours, so would I offer mine to you, for I also wish to comb and be combed by none but you. Gladly will I vow to you, for never has any other meant to me what you do.”

And he leans and kisses me softly on the forehead, a ritual kiss, part of the taking of vows, before we say those words in the oldest tongue of all, those words which will bind us together for all time.

Later, when he has fallen into reverie, I watch at his side, and I wonder if this is what has worried him so. Now we have been able to make this right, will these strange moods pass? I do not know, but at least now I need not fear he will walk away.

He would not speak such a solemn oath did he not mean it.

He would not.

Even Glorfindel has not that much reckless courage.


	15. Chapter 15

The time ends. Our lord Elrond leaves, and with him many, many of the household.

Before he goes, I speak alone to Lindir,  
“Are you sure?” I ask, “Is this wise? Will you find what you seek in the West, in Valinor? Would you not be more content here, quietly?”

He hesitates a moment before speaking,  
“Erestor, you know, I think, that there is not to be content for me. I am not vowed, I will neither vow nor marry. I seek nothing. I know there is nothing Valinor can offer me, that I have not had these past thousand years, yet – were I to stay – my joy would be gone, and I would feel no content.”

I press his hand in silence, I touch his ear, for there are no words for his courage. He will sail, he will serve, he will sing, and, I suppose, he will have friends as he ever has, for he makes friends easily, he will have combing within group after group.

I cannot pity him. He chooses his own fate, his eyes clear, his head held high.

What more could any ask?

 

 

After they have left, I say this to Glorfindel. He looks at me as though I have lost my wits.

“What more? The poor creature could ask a lot more of life. He could ask for someone to care for him. He could ask for some hope of an end to service. He could ask for some joy of his own.” His words are full of anger, and frustration, and I – I wonder why.

“He chooses with his own will. He sees what he goes to, he does not wish for any other choice. He is an elf,” I look away, trying to conceal the confusion I feel at his anger, “an elf. You know, and I know, that when once an elf chooses their fate, gives their heart, nothing can move us. We endure. Or we fade, if we have asked too much of ourselves. That is how we are.”

“How we are. How bloody foolish we are. How accepting. How – how passive,” he brings his clenched fist down on the table in impatience, “how – sorry. I am sorry. I am unreasonable again. It just – it seems he wastes so much, gives so much, for so little. It makes me wonder why.”

I shrug,   
“Why? Because he is an elf. That is how we are. He is happy enough, in his own way, knowing his service valued. What would you have him do?”

He sighs,   
“Lindir – what would I have Lindir do? Nothing else. Were he to act differently – he would not be Lindir.” He pushes himself up from the table, and I watch his muscles move under his skin as his head hangs down for a moment, eyes closed. Then he visibly swallows, looks up, away from me, and gathers himself to walk away, back to whatever it is he is doing this afternoon.

After a moment, I also rise, go to my rooms, and begin work, knowing he will be hard to live with now for a few days – until he can manufacture a reason to go out on patrol, and come back restored.

I do not let myself think of the real – slight but real – risk he may not come back.

Where would the sense be in that?

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

My lord sails, the House becomes quieter than ever.

Lindir trails after him, and my love, my Erestor and I have a quarrel when I let my frustration, my hopeless longings, cause me to be cruel, to accuse Lindir of the cowardice I know myself to show. It is unfair. He is an elf, he acts as elves do. He knows no better, no other choice.

If I am so scornful of him, what words should I use for myself, I who know what I desire, who know it to be forbidden to me, and yet will not release my – my dear friend – to look for what he deserves? 

Will not release him – be honest – I have even bound him closer to me, taking vows which cannot – should not – be broken. 

Beautiful as that moment – that evening was – I could weep for myself, for him, that it was built on a lie. That even as I said the words, I lied to him. For the sake of some years, decades, perhaps even centuries of happiness, I let him vow away his chance of forever. He will now have none to comb with in the West – even if I speak the words of release before he goes, I think he will not be able to forget. I have been untrue in my dealings with him, and that is the worst crime of all.

There can be no forgiveness for me.


	16. Chapter 16

The months pass, the years begin to turn, the new age to grow.

Imladris is much as it ever was – save quieter.

No children now, no elflings.

Less elves with every year.

We do not speak of it, we know we have given our word to our lord. We will stay as long as his sons need us. 

We had expected their grandfather to come here – but we are not sorry he does not hasten. There is a certain pleasure in having the place entirely at our command.

And, as ever, Glorfindel is my dearest friend, my love, my combmate. He is the one I wish to work beside, to reverie with, to braid.

He is the one I talk to of everything and nothing.

His voice joins mine in song.

We have here all we could wish for, I think. We have a home, we have safety, we have enough report of disturbance for him to find excitement, we are lords of the House in all but name.

We have each other.

Yet – somehow, sometimes – it seems it is not enough for him, and I do not know why.

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

My patrolling – as we still call it – is degenerating. I do not know how much he knows, I do not ask, I do not tell. 

Truly, if I can, I will kill orcs, or bandits, or any ruffians – but there are not now many. These are the days of the King, and all is blessed.

All but me.

I ride out, I find trouble where I can, I find drink and company.

Company I once would have considered beneath me. Company I would have shunned, yet now am drawn to. I hear talk, I learn to understand and even return it. 

I never again make the mistake of thinking I am a mortal, I cannot act as they do – but I am eased in my ache, my longing, by reading the clear signals that tell me if I was – oh if I was – there are men enough – and possibly women, I admit I am less clear on that – who would comfort me. Men who would make an offering of their honour for the elf-lord.

Why that helps me, I do not know, and I shy from the question. What does it say of me, that I, who know myself cast out, forsaken, can only find comfort from the thought of others who share my needs?

Nothing good.

I try to pretend it is that if others can feel this way, there is hope that one day, one day, he might – he might, of his own accord – without my guilt – turn to me in longing, in discovered need. And then – oh then all would be well.

Except, it would not.

There can be no such occurrence. He is an elf, a very content elf. He does not burn and ache and long – and if he did, it would be my fault, and I could never be at ease.

But I learn to imagine it. I learn how to – to torture myself with longing. I learn to envy mortals, for I learn they can release themselves – and I – I am elf enough that I cannot. All I can do is lie awake thinking, wondering, how it would truly feel. 

More than that, as I spend more time with mortals, I learn of – of variations. At first, at first, I am filled with anger – these mortals, they have so much, and yet they seem – they seem to value it not – they must make more of it. 

I suppose, dully, it is like being close to death from starvation, kept always on the smallest ration of cram that would sustain life – and hearing others talk – not of ordinary meals, plain food, but – oh Eru – of feasts with hundreds of courses, and complicated rituals, and dishes – dishes such as I cannot even imagine, I cannot let myself think of.

At first I cannot.

I find, after a time, listening to jokes, to casual talk, that – that I can. Oh Elbereth, forgive me, but I can. I can imagine only too well not just what it might be to hold, to kiss, to – to touch, to please – but – these other things they jest of, and for all I know it is merely jesting – but – the image is in my mind of how my sweet Erestor would look blindfold, bound, begging for me.

And now I know I am stained beyond any hope of cleansing.


	17. Chapter 17

A letter comes, as they do, from Arwen. She is happy. She has seen her brothers recently, and passes on news of them, news of her life.

“I do not know why Elrond wanted us to keep this home for those boys,” I say, they will always be boys to us, “they are clearly not interested. Now they have finally got away from their father’s Valley, they show no inclination to return, and why should they? They are clearly having the time of their lives, travelling about, causing mayhem, I daresay.”

“Or trying to,” he laughs, “see, she says they are new-come from the court of Thranduil. He is not one to be disturbed by silly boys, I think. He has had four of his own, after all.” And he sighs.

Suddenly, I think I understand what it is that is not enough for my dear friend, and though it hurts, I speak my thought,

“Four elflings,” I begin, “three were a handful here. But – is that what has you so sad sometimes? Do you – do you wish for a wife, for elflings? For – I suppose gossip would name them – little golden flowerlings?” I try to speak lightly, that he not hear my hurt, that he be honest with me – if this is what is between us, then – then I would have him seek one he could marry. 

That is how friendship is, surely. 

We would still be friends. Still perhaps comb, from time to time.

That is the sensible way to look at it.

There is no answer for a moment, and I force myself to look at him, to see if I can read his face. He is glaring at me, and for the first time in all these years, I can feel he is holding back his physical desire to strike me.

I really do not think that I have said anything so very, very offensive.

Is it the jest – he does not like to be called by his old titles, does not like to be reminded of his legend.

“Think you I take my vows so lightly?” he – the only word is – growls at me, and – no. It is not the jest. “So lightly I would throw them away for – for that? If I sought a wife, I daresay I could have found one by now, and perhaps – perhaps one who I knew had married the balrog-slayer rather than me would hurt me less.”

For a moment I think he is about to walk off, to go and – I do not know – hit something. No. I will not let him walk away thinking I meant to hurt.

“I did not mean that,” I say, “I was just – wondering if that is what you had once hoped. Sometimes you seem – you seem as though all is not as you would have your life be, and I wondered. I do not think of you as just a hero, you know this, and nor do I think you give your word lightly. Forgive me. I spoke amiss.”

He nods, silently, and resumes reading the letter.

I slide a little closer on the bench, and lean my head on his shoulder that I may see also. For an instant I feel him flinch away from me, but then he relaxes against me, and I think I am forgiven, at least in part. I make a note in my mind to reassure him with words when we comb tonight, and speak of something else which puzzled me.

“But – why were the boys going to Eryn Lasgalen? I do not really understand what she means, that ‘they wished to encourage more family feeling among the Sindar of that Forest, but fear they may have spoken out of turn, may have made matters worse, that if only they had known Legolas was not as open with his father as he is with all others about his love for his dear Elvellon, they would have kept silent.’” I pause, but there is no response, “Elvellon – that would be the dwarf, Gimli son of Gloin, also of the Nine Walkers, they were clearly friends when we were in Minas Tirith. Do you remember, how we heard they went off to see those caves? And – am I not right – they left the company together – were to share their journey home – to see Fangorn? I did not know they were still so close. But – what harm in that?” still no response, “I suppose Thranduil is not one to deal well with dwarves,” another thought strikes me and I laugh, “did you know he wished Legolas to marry Arwen? Elrond told me. While you were – I forget where – before the quest left here. I doubt he would have coped with her, she is a headstrong girl, always was, and he was such a quiet, shy wood-elf.”

There is still silence, and I look at him, he is staring at the words.

“Glorfindel?” I ask, “What is wrong, meleth-nin? You – you did not seem so shocked when we were in their company. They were clearly close friends.”

He looks at me and looks back at the words,

“Close friends,” he says, dully, “yes. Close friends. But – the way she writes. She implies they – they comb.”

“Well,” I say, “that is – unusual. But – they were away from all others a long while. After all, Arwen has married a Man – is a friendship with a dwarf any worse, any more surprising?”

“Ask Thranduil,” he says, trying for his usual tone of flippancy, “I think you will find he will have a very definite opinion. But – no. I suppose you are right. Just – he – was such a very – fair elf.” And he gets up, and walks away.

I do not know what to think, what to feel.

Should I be hurt? That he finds another elf so fair – yet – why? Why would I be? He has never hinted that he wishes I looked different. Such things – are not important between friends – between combmates. 

Surely.

This is not sensible.

I should ignore it. That is the best course of action. He may be thinking of something from a past time, some elf he knew then of whom Thranduilion reminded him. Or of some dwarven treachery long past.

If he wanted me to know, he would tell me.

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

Part of me begins to wonder if I should leave. I do not know where I could go to find peace, but perhaps I should leave before I do something to hurt him.

Something more than I have already done.

For I know, someone has to pay for this – and I fear it is not just me. I fear, and I cannot see how not, that he too will pay.

If I am honest, for all that I try, and oh dear stars, I try so hard, I bite down on so many, many words, I do not let myself reach for him as I long to, I do not let myself show anything of what I dream – but I know there is something missing from our combing, I know he must realise my heart is there, but – some part of me is not.

He asks – and I know he means it kindly, but some part of me withers – he asks if I would leave, and look for a wife. Perhaps, perhaps it would be better if I had, years ago, perhaps it would have been ‘better to marry than to burn’ like this – but I do not want a wife. I want him.

And that he could let me go – I ache.

But when, in his innocence, he comments on the rest of the letter – on Thranduilion taking up with this dwarf – I do not know how to close my mouth on the bitter words that are in my mind. I remember my scorn, my satisfaction, how I thought myself better than that lad because I love an elf, not a dwarf – and it is no comfort that it is still true. His sighing, his whimpering, as I called it – he must have used it somehow to get what he wanted, and now – now he has his pleasure.

Cast out he may be, the Valar may forsake him, but at least he has some taste of – of this – first.

And I am burning again with jealousy.

A hateful, despicable part of myself wonders – had I acted differently – had I been kinder – more – I do not have the words – but I wonder. He was so clearly miserable in Minas Tirith – had I stretched out my hand – I remember his blushes before he set out on that quest – had I left my sweet love’s side, could I have had this Thranduilion, this Legolas, in my bed? 

Perhaps.

But, for all that we were then both in the same need – much good it would have done us, elves that we are. I do not, and did not, love him, nor he me. 

Fair though he was.


	18. Chapter 18

Time passes, as time does, I find, however bad the pain, however heart-sick the elf.

For I am heart-sick, knowing I hurt the one I love so, knowing I am so unkind, so unreasonable to him. I love him, and yet I can neither put away this desire for something he cannot give, nor walk away from him and leave him in peace. 

We have our good times – many of them – we comb, we talk, we sing, we train – I have him at last persuaded to take up his sword again, and he takes my breath away with his skill, though I see in his eyes he does not believe me. 

In truth, he takes my breath away with his beauty, with this longing I feel, and I find – I find I cannot bear to cross swords with him. I do, at first, for it seems to me it would be a pleasure – the nearest pleasure I can imagine to that I long for – to face each other, to learn each other’s movements, test reactions, and muscles. 

But – I find – the temptation is too much. He is indeed skilled, and fast, and when he spars with my other elves – it is almost impossible to believe he has not held this sword in so long. However, I am Glorfindel. 

He is fast, but I am faster. He is skilled, but not so skilled as I. He is strong, but I am stronger. He does not truly enjoy this, he does not give heart and mind and body over to this dance. He is one of these new Noldor – he does not truly dance as I would, as I did so long ago, in another Age. 

The first – the only – time we spar together, I disarm him, I have my sword at his throat, and I watch as for an instant he is afraid I have forgot who he is. I watch him swallow, and lick his lips, I watch his tongue, I watch his breath, I watch his chest heave with the unaccustomed exertion.

I find I too am breathless. 

I want to throw my sword aside. I want to pull him to me, and lick the sweat away. I want that sweet tongue on me. I want to hold him so close, and tell him none will ever harm him while I live.

And at the same time, a dark and hidden part of me is whispering – to do such a thing, to act so, would be unforgivable. In which case, this hidden self argues, why stop at that? Why be gentle? I am Glorfindel.

Were I to trace my sword to the back of his neck, were I to make him kneel, were I to – to force him – to use his mouth – to – oh sweet Valar – to submit to me, to let me use him as I wish – he could not stop me. And would I truly be sinning worse to do so, than to persuade him, to urge him down into this pit of desolation with me?

Even as I reach the end of the thought, I am shaking with horror, with fear.

I cling to my sword, both hands anchoring me, as I lower it. I step backwards, I nod in acknowledgement. I cannot speak, cannot find words.

I walk away. 

I am Glorfindel still, I have not tarnished my legend.

We do not spar together again. I suppose, dully, that he thinks he is too out of practice, that I despise his mistakes. He does not speak of it, and nor do I. Only, without words, I try to show him I do not, I simply – cannot fight him.

After a time, I find I can watch him with others, and call out in praise, in encouragement, in advice, and when he turns to smile, acknowledging me as he disarms one after another, I am content.

As content as I ever can be.

We work – it is surprising how much there still is to do – one would think there would be less now the elves are less. I do not think I ever noticed how much our lord did, for all I ever saw was how much he piled on my Erestor, yet now he is gone – we both have more to do than before. We get in the habit of working outside, if the weather is pleasant, sharing a table. 

I could not share an office with him, this I know, or rather, he could not with me, untidy, disorganised as he calls me. Unfairly. I know where every piece of paper is, or should be, and – well. It does not matter.

We reverie together. And it is a comfort to me, to know how he trusts me so, even though I do not deserve it.

Yet – I do not break his trust. However much I long, I do nothing that any combmate would not do. I do not touch him in his reverie. 

I barely let myself look.

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

Time passes.

We remain masters of this Valley. The twins are elsewhere – having fun, I hope. They deserve it, poor boys, they have had a lot of pain, and there will be more for them when they watch their sister die, her children age. 

And if I am not unselfish in the wish that they stay away – that we remain lords here – what of it? Life is good.

Glorfindel’s strange moods become less, or possibly I become used to them. Whatever it is never seems to go completely, but he does not want to talk, so I respect that. How not, he is my combmate. He is my friend, and more than friend. 

We live together, we eat together, we work side by side, we ride out together, we comb together, sing together, we reverie together. We train together – he will not let us lose our skill at arms – indeed, he is insistent that now I must once again take up my sword. I see no reason for it, now that war is over, now that the days are peaceful, but, if it makes him happy I see no harm in it. The exercise is probably good for me, and it is interesting to be able to watch him in his element.

Truly, I had forgotten how skilled, how fast, how strong he is. I had forgotten the pleasure that always comes with watching a consummate expert at work.

Nor had I realised how much of my sarcasm he has picked up over the years. I feel a little guilty at the thought he has learnt this skill from me, and taken it and used it on these poor elves who try so hard to please him. 

After one trial, we do not spar together. The difference is too great, he is bored by the lack of challenge – though I do not think there are many here who are better than I. I daresay it is some old custom, that one does not spar with – with one’s love. 

He is my love, in the way that elves love.

We even become used to saying the words, when we are alone.


	19. Chapter 19

One day we have visitors. Unexpectedly.

Thranduilion – Legolas of Ithilien, as we find he titles himself, and Gimli, son of Gloin, Lord of Aglarond.

They are journeying from the Shire to their homes – or is it home – it is not clear? 

The first night they are here, there is some nonsense about a wager. A language trial – who has learnt the other’s tongue better. They wish me to judge – they come up with all sorts of excuses, but I suspect it is simply that there are few non-dwarves who speak khuzdul. It is forbidden to teach it to any, so perhaps this Gimli does not wish his own friends or family to know.

I think he would be safe. It does not seem to me that a lot of teaching has happened. Legolas’ grasp of the language is – abysmal. 

There is a clear winner. The prize – an evening where the loser must comply with the winner’s wishes – seems – foolish to me.

It causes Glorfindel some amusement, I notice. He and the dwarf seem to find something very funny.

I do not know what.

They are not troublesome guests, on the whole. They seem to need to wash a lot, but I suppose they have been on the road a while, and have many miles to go before they will next have hot water so readily available. They have the guest-wing to themselves, so if they are, as I believe Arwen mentioned, noisy, it is no trouble to anyone else. I suppose dwarves are not used to elven wine – and Thranduil’s court is known to be hard-drinking. Doubtless they are loud in the way that all those who drink too much are loud, I say to Glorfindel, meaningfully, when he mentions something of this.

He looks at me, and bites his lip, before agreeing.

They spend a lot of time sitting around. I had never realised before how much dwarves like to touch – the two of them seem to find it necessary to be holding hands, or well, cuddling, almost all the time. 

Harmless, I suppose. 

It would not be sensible to make a fuss.

But – it is not very elflike.

I mention it to Glorfindel. Again, he looks at me and bites his lip, before agreeing that it is odd, but not anything to be concerned over.

 

The day they leave, Legolas says something strange.

“My lord, I am sorry,” he begins, and I see he is flushing, “but – we broke one of the beds. I – I would not have you blame a servant.”

I look blankly at him,  
“Thranduilion, what – what in the name of Manwe were you doing to break a bed? I – I know – Glorfindel reminded me – you comb together – but – to break a bed? How?” I honestly cannot imagine what they have been doing.

“Gimli is mortal, my lord,” he says, “mortals – have more than combing when they love. As can elves, if they choose. Perhaps you should speak to the lord Glorfindel.” He turns away, calls his horse. I do not know what he means.

As they prepare to depart, he speaks again;  
“I thank you for your hospitality, my lords. Should you ever wish to see Ithilien, you are in guestfriendship with us, we will welcome you.”

They ride away, and I turn to Glorfindel,  
“Would you like to see Ithilien? Some day? It is supposed to be very beautiful. I daresay we could travel a little, if you would like – or you could, I would not mind. We have not even visited Arwen since she left, and the roads are safer now.”

“Perhaps,” is all he says, as he turns away, and I wonder what has left him so restless now.

But I have a different riddle to solve.

What did Thranduilion mean – more than combing? And – he implied that Glorfindel knows. What does he know?

How does he know?

Why has he never spoken of this?

I find I cannot let the thoughts alone. I go to the rooms they were given – I have not yet ordered them cleaned, so they will not have been – and – I look.

The rooms are not disordered. Not much.

There are marks – it seems – something – several somethings – heavy have been moved across the floor in one room. Here the bed is, indeed, broken. Not badly, I am sure it can be fixed, but – one leg has given way. 

I look. I cannot imagine how this was done.

Suddenly, I remember the twins, as elflings, jumping on their beds, jumping together on one bed, and it too broke. 

But – why? 

As I stand there, I notice the sheets are excessively disordered. The bed in the adjoining room is also rumpled.

There is a strange scent in the air.

I stand there, wondering.

A memory comes back. Not long after our lord and lady married – I remember going to their room for something – I forget what. The faint scent, the sheets, the disorder, but – how can this be? 

These were no newly-weds. These were friends. Combmates, perhaps, though that is odd, for an elf to comb with a dwarf, but – males. 

I have met dwarf-women, dwarrowdams is the polite word, I remind myself, and Gimli – is not one.

So.

I do not understand.

What was Legolas trying to tell me?

Why?

‘Ask Glorfindel’ he said, and I wonder if I should.


	20. Chapter 20

Even then, perhaps I would not, perhaps I would have stayed quiet, stayed safe.

But, as I am standing, wondering, wondering what I am missing, wondering if I am failing him in some way, some way that I know not, Glorfindel walks in. He sees me and stops.

We look at each other, I waiting for him to explain his presence, he – the same I suppose.

When it becomes clear neither of us intends to, he moves, as though he will walk away, and suddenly, suddenly I am brave.

“What did Legolas mean?” I begin, perhaps not very logically, since he spoke to me alone, since Glorfindel did not hear his words, “what did he mean – ask Glorfindel? What do you know of these two – of this – this more-than-combing he spoke of? And how does he know what you know? What do you know – what have you done with him?”

I sound ineloquent, and almost – jealous, I realise. 

Yes. That is how I feel. Jealous. 

Left-out. Slighted.

He turns away, he walks to the window, and looks away, hiding his face from me, and I wonder why.

“I have done nothing with him. Or with any. I was a fool – I spoke to Gimli – as though – as though I know more than I do. I – oh shit, Erestor, you were a warrior once. You know how soldiers speak, far from home, of – of food, and comfort, and – and their wives. Of combmates they miss.”

I wait. 

But it seems he has stopped.

“That is not all,” I say, I will have this truth, I must know, there is suddenly a burning need in me to know of what they speak, “he spoke of more than combing. They – they two are male – yet – this room – is like – is like that of newly-weds. Tell me.”

He faces me again,  
“Since you are so clever, work it out yourself. Yes. More than combing. Like newly-weds. I have heard mortals talk of it – laugh of it – among men – I suppose – elves could if they tried.”

“Could what?” I say, anger driving me on, as though I cannot hear the discomfort in his voice, the desperation for me to stop. “Tell me.”

“Elbereth, Erestor, stop this,” he says, but he must see I will not stop, and perhaps he also is angry, “could – I do not have the words – could kiss, and – and suck and lick – and – and fuck. If you will have it plain, I suppose when they were here together, that dwarf mounted Thranduilion as though he were a maiden.”

My face must show my lack of understanding,   
“How?” I say, not even beginning to deal with why, or is that right, or what do the Valar make of that, or would it be nice, or – or is that what you want, is this where all your unreasonableness comes from, “How? Males – are not – females – we do not have – the relevant parts.”

He laughs, and for the first time in all these years, it is not a pleasant sound,  
“It is not like you to be so dense, where do you think he sticks it? Dwarf cock up pretty elven arse, I assume,” and then, looking at my face, “happy now? Feel better for knowing?”

I look him straight in the eyes, and I am not sure what I see there, some deep pain, I think, some hatred, but whether for me, or for them or for himself – I am not sure.

“I am not sure I feel better, exactly,” I say, precise as ever, slowly, trying to think, “but – how long have you known of this? Is this – is this what you would have? Is this,” I am beginning to understand, “is this where all your – your unreasonableness comes from? From wanting – this?”

There is silence, and I see he can no longer look at me.

“Because,” I begin again, “because if it is, if that is what you want of me, then – then why have you never asked? I love you. Meleth-nin, I was under the impression you loved me. I thought – what we had – have – was enough. I thought it was all there was. But if you knew – if you wanted – then why would you not speak to me? Did you not trust me enough to speak of this? Of anything? You are my combmate – why would you not trust me and speak to me?”

I wait for his answer, and after a moment he manages to grind out,  
“Because I love you, my Erestor, I respect you, I honour you. Because we are elves. Because this – this is not for us. Elves do not act so,” he is shouting now, “elves do not do such things. It is – for mortals perhaps. Not for us. For us – it is forbidden. The Valar do not allow such things for us, only for mortals. And for them, even for them, there is rarely honour in it. And I would not dishonour you, my Erestor, I would not ask such a thing of you. Not for anything would I do that to you, would I treat you like that. I love you. What we have should be enough. It is wrong of me to even think of anything else. I would not do that to you.”

And he walks to the door, as I stand there, confused once more.

“I will ride out,” he says, “I do not know how long for, or where. Towards Bree, perhaps. There has been trouble that way. I will come back, I promise, but – I need time alone.”

He is gone.

“But I love you,” I say, “and I did not think Thranduilion seemed lacking in honour.”

I speak too quietly, and too late. Even elven hearing cannot pick up my words, and I am too slow to move.

I arrive at the gates in time to see him mount, and I stand there, hopelessly, as he gathers himself together, bells ringing. He sees me, and for a moment, I think he will ride off anyway, no farewell, but – then he realises we are not alone. He will not fall below his legend. 

He leans down from the saddle, and touches my ears, as I reach to touch his,  
“I will come back,” he promises again, and I answer,

“I will be waiting, meleth,” trying to ignore the flinch at the word.

I watch him ride away, and I turn to go to my study. There is work to do, surely. Then I stop.

There are no answers there.

I am not sure I even know the questions.

But – it seems to me I had better try and find out.


	21. Chapter 21

We have guests. 

And my carefully constructed world begins to fall apart.

If they had sent word they were coming, if we had known they were likely – I would have made sure to be from home.

I can hardly bear to watch the two of them. 

Touching. They cannot keep their hands from each other, and it hurts, it hurts so to see their happiness.

I watch them, and I wish I had the courage to act, but – I do not.

I tell myself, that if it were a mortal I longed for, I would – I would not fear, for this – it may not be praised, but it is not forbidden for mortals. If my love had ever – ever wanted – but he does not – he cannot. And I will not be the instrument of his fall.

I will not.

Yet – watching these two, I am almost ashamed of my belief this is forbidden. They are so joyous.

And I remember when first we exchanged our combs, how, for all that our vows were not exclusive, for they could not be, how we too were joyous, golden. How all was right in our world. 

I had not realised how much we have lost over the years of my concealment.

And it tears at my heart to see it.

 

 

After they have left, I find myself regretting another missed opportunity. I wonder if I should have spoken to Legolas – and for the first time I find I can think of him as such, not as Thranduilion – if I should have asked for help.

But – I am ‘the balrog slayer’. I do not ask for help. 

I have little enough left, it seems to me these days. I will keep my legend.

And I could not bear it for a dwarf to know how dark my life has become. So when he tried to help, for I think he did in truth wish to help, when he said to me that I do my love no favours by treating him as though he were too fragile to understand my desires, I let my words deceive. Let him think I know, and I experience, and I take my pleasures among mortals. Let him think I have those I take crying out under me, helpless, bound, let him think I am cruel in my lusts. Let him think he needs protect his pretty little Sindar from me, as I saw him move to do. Let him think I know how his princeling would look in sweet submission, how tears and marks would suit him. Let him think I deserve to inspire the horror I saw in his eyes. 

Let him think I lie to my love, as I implied, let him think I am cruel, and heartless, and domineering – let him not know I am in torment and see no way out. Let this dwarf – this _naug_ – not see I am caught in a trap I cannot free myself from. Let him not see I burn every day and night of my life. Let him not see I am cast out, I am unworthy, I am stained and soiled through and through, I am less beloved by the Valar than any mortal.

Let me keep my pride.

But I go to their room, and I know not really why. Perhaps – perhaps to feel for a moment more their joy in each other, perhaps to imagine this could have been ours, had I the courage of that Sindar.

When my love is there before me, when my love asks me questions – questions I do not know how to answer – questions I have longed to answer to him, yet not like this, not like this, the anger on his face – oh sweet Elbereth, save me from this. I did nothing wrong, I want to scream, I never, ever betrayed you. I would not.

And I know it to be a lie. I would have.

I could not.

Yet – I did not pull you down with me. I hid it, I tried so hard, I only wanted to protect you, to keep you safe; I burned to save you – and you throw it at me as an accusation.

And I shout at him, I rage and use words I never thought I would say to any elf, least of all to this one, this dearest above all elves. I see rejection in his face, I see horror, and disgust, and all the things I most dread, and then, the knife in the wound, the brand in the burn, he implies – he hints – that if I asked he would – but I cannot, I cannot, this cannot be, and I let my anger bear me up and take me away from this.

I ride away.

And I do not look back.


	22. Chapter 22

I go into the gardens. No reason, just – it seems the right place to wander and try to think.

Oh my poor Glorfindel.

I love him.

And he me.

That is not, I think, in doubt.

We are vowed to each other, and, it seems, logically, that he must have been – aware of this – this – more-than-combing – when we made those vows. He must have. This – if this is what causes his dark moods – they have been part of him so long – he must have known.

Which implies it is not that he wishes to leave me, to be with another.

That flare of jealousy was unnecessary. He does not want Thranduilion. No, I remember when the boy was here before, Glorfindel did comb with him then, for with no group of his own Legolas had joined with those he had been shooting with – and said afterwards how sad it was that one so – fair – should be so – what was the word he used – unsure. That it made him unskilled with his comb, with his voice. I remember smiling quietly as he said it, and as he moved in a way that made it very clear who he considered more skilled.

So.

It is me he loves.

Good.

So. 

Is it that he is simply distressed, disturbed by this knowledge?

No. For that – that would have been something he might have talked of, somehow, before now. Or, if not, he would have ridden out, killed things, and felt better.

He would have been colder towards those two guests of ours, I admit to myself. He is not one to dissemble for the sake of propriety.

So.

It would seem – and I think on his words – ‘it is wrong of me to even think of anything else’ – it would seem that he does think of this – more-than-combing.

He wants to – I cannot even think the words he used.

With me.

So.

I – I do not know what I feel about that.

Think.

I feel – pleased there is no other in his mind.

I feel – sad that he has not spoken before, when I thought we were so close.

I feel – unsure exactly what it is he wants, and so – and so I cannot know whether I would want it.

There are other feelings there, but I am not quite ready to look at them yet.

So.

Pleased, sad, unsure.

That is not logical.

So.

The sadness – I cannot deal with. I would need to speak to him for that.

The pleasure – will have to sustain me for as long as it takes him to kill things, and then come back.

The doubt – there is something I can do about that. 

First principle of anything. If there is a decision to be made, gather information. 

So.

Where from?

Our guests – have left. I am not sure I would wish to speak to either of them, but it matters not. They are gone.

There are no other mortals here at present, and I need this information now.

I do not think, on the whole, that riding out to some mortal village would be the way to find out. 

At least, not pleasantly. 

I imagine at best it would cause comment. At worst – I will not think of the worst. 

So.

Where does one find information?

The library.

Elrond was part-mortal. He may well have had something, somewhere. Some – I do not know – restricted shelf, some books in – perhaps – plain bindings, bindings that would discourage elves, but allow those who know to find them.

So.

I will go and look.

Information, Erestor. You cannot think without information.

 

 

I go to the library.

Systematically, I begin to search. Not on the shelves I know, but on those out of the way, those nearest my lord’s old study – for perhaps he would have wanted to keep an eye on such books, ensure his children did not read them.

At which thought, I stop.

Arwen – maybe, or maybe not. She was never one to let on if she had done something she should not have. You never knew.

But those boys. If there is anything in this room that is unsuitable, they will have found and read it.

I cast my mind back. 

I remember them, not so very long ago, definitely being up to no good in here. I remember their father’s anger when he found out.

It occurs to me now, I never knew why.

Well. They are adults now, they are off, somewhere in the world. I do not need to worry about knowledge they have or do not have.

But I think I know where to look.

 

 

I am right.

Thank you, boys, I think. You have saved me a lot of effort there, though I do not think that is a conversation we shall ever have.

I find several books, which look – likely.

I remove them to my room. I do not wish to be found reading them. I lock the door.

 

 

Dear Valar.

I am – shocked.

Utterly shocked.

I had no idea. It seems – I suppose – slow of me not to have thought, but – elves do not. I – like most elves – was under the impression such things – such things between husband and wife are pleasant enough, no doubt, but – undertaken mainly for elflings. I did not know there was supposed to be such pleasure in it.

Or that it could be done for pleasure only.

Or – or that these things could be between two males. And so, I suppose, two females, although – I am avoiding those parts of the books, I am trying to avoid anything that is not relevant to the problem I have to face.

My Glorfindel.

Dear Valar, what – what do the Valar make of this? Is this something allowed – as these writers seem to take for granted, or forbidden, as my friend has said?

My friend. My combmate.

My – my would-be lover? Is that what he is? Is that how he feels, what he wants?

And at the thought, I am – not quite shuddering. A part of me cannot but think he is right. This is forbidden, wrong. If it were not – surely all would know of it, elves would act this way?

Does he really want to do this to me – with me? I feel – I do not know. Slightly – sick.

It does not sound nice.

Or – clean.

It does not sound a good idea.

At least – that is my first thought.

Yet – I cannot stop reading. And – there are many pleasures which do not sound a good idea. Excessive wine. Eating caviar. I think – from things I have heard said – mortals do not – do not understand the pleasure of combing, of song – yet I cannot believe they would not if they tried.

It is not sensible to love one elf so much that one would fade were they to leave or die. It is not logical to act as many elves act in love, longing and waiting, serving without hope of reward.

Perhaps this is not so very strange.

That such things should happen – that such things have been happening all this time. And that people – Men I think, not elves – Men and perhaps – other races – I do not know – dwarves from the sound of it – should not only do – this – but – write about it.

Draw illustrations.

I had no idea.

I feel – foolish.

But more than that I feel – restless. 

Flushed.

I feel – my ears burn. I keep thinking of what I have read, and I cannot stop the images, but – they are not images of – whoever the characters were – they are – us.

Could we?

Would he?

Would it be – as good as they make it sound?

Thranduilion certainly looked happy.

I cannot believe there is any physical skill in which my Glorfindel would not out-perform a dwarf.

I find – I do not want food this evening. I stay in my room.

Reading.

 

 

But the thought keeps coming back. Is this forbidden? Will I be cast aside by the Valar, unable to enter the Lands in the West for this?

For knowing about it – I cannot believe so. That would be unjust. I will not believe in an unjust judgement.

For thinking of it, for – for desiring it – not that I do, but he does, I think – no. For if they turn him away, then I am cast aside also, for what is Valinor to me without my combmate, my love? And if they would have turned him aside all these years, for wanting, when I did not – that would have been unjust to me. I will not believe that possible.

For – if we did – which we may not – but if we did – for acting so – I do not know. I cannot know. But – I do not see why. It does not seem logical. If we are made so that we can want this, enjoy this – if we are, and I know not if that is so – then why cast us aside for acting to our nature? That – would not be just.

A small part of my mind points out that – orcs are made evil, men are made mortal, neither are allowed in Valinor, neither are forgiven their natures – and I quickly find the counter-argument that I know not where they go. They may very well go somewhere they will be very happy, just – more suited to their kind. But – we will still be elves. Whatever else. That – that is the logical way to look at this. 

Yes. Logic.

That will not let me down.

 

 

Some of the books – some of the scenes – seem, even to me, and I am no judge, ridiculous. Surely, surely no-one speaks like that. 

That – cannot be possible.

No-one would do that.

No-one would like that.

And as for – that – who would have the patience? And why?

But – much of it – so much – I want.

I think of Thranduilion – Legolas of Ithilien – and his dwarf – I think of the shine on that lad, of how golden he was. I think of how his eyes, his skin, his hair – all were perfect, all told of an elf in the peak of condition. I think of how happy they were together. I think of how – how they need only exchange a glance, a touch, and – and he would glow. 

I think of how my love is so often sad, so often – distressed. I think of how I have thought before, so often, that I would give anything – anything – to see him without that weight he sometimes seems to carry. I understand at last what it is that has been his burden all these years.

But – much though I wish to see him happy – I am not so unselfish. I am not thinking only of him.

I admit to myself, I do want this. I want this with my love, my combmate, my Glorfindel.

It matters not whether I should or should not want it. 

I do.

I burn. I ache.

I comb myself, and I cannot stop thinking of what I have read. I wonder – I wish I could – but – I do not have the courage to try to – practise.

I suspect I would not be able. I am an elf. We are not – very skilled at such things.

I cannot stop thinking. 

I seem to have enough information now. And to have made my decision.


	23. Chapter 23

One morning I wake, and realise how long he has been gone. He may not be back today, but it will not be many more days.

I pull myself together. 

I take all but the most – helpful – book back to the library where I found them. That one, I place carefully at the bottom of a drawer near my bed.

I tidy my room – not that he would care, or notice – but I would.

I return to my duties. No-one comments that I have been – lazing around – or whatever they think – for so long, a thing previously unheard of. 

I make a few – preparations.

And I wait.

He said he would come back. He promised. 

I will not doubt his word. He has never let me down.

He promised he would come back to me.

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

I do not know if I can go back, for all I said I would, I am afraid. Afraid he will have no more care for me.

I find orcs – thank you Elbereth, I think – and for the first time for a long while, I fight, and I kill, and I feel as though there is some purpose to me.

Yet after, I cannot rest, I can only keep riding, searching out more trouble – any trouble, I care not, wolves, orcs, ruffians. Every encounter feels good, every fight brings me to life – yet after each, I wonder why I bother to guard myself. If I dare not ride home – if I have now no home – home is where Erestor is – but if he is not mine, if he wants me no more – if I dare not ride back, if I will bring only grief to him, would I not be better dead? 

Better to go back to those cold Halls, those silent glades, and let him mourn the good, and forget the bad.

Yet, old habits die hard it seems, and I cannot but fight my best. Old habits die hard, old elves die harder.

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

Waiting is not easy.

I miss him as I always miss him. I miss his humour, his friendship, his voice, his comb.

But more than that, I miss his presence.

I have words I wish to speak to him, and waiting, over-preparing does not help. They are not easy words to say, not the words that speak of these matters, these matters that – that are not spoken of by elves. 

The other words I think I need to speak – they are not easy either. His native tongue is not mine, it is not even the Quenya used in law, it is an older dialect, but I am Erestor. If my love needs me to speak his language, and I think he does, I think he needs all the care and comfort I can offer, then I will learn it, I will learn the words I need. I am no foolish Sindar to stumble, to falter with my words.

I have my words prepared. 

I have now things I would – very much – very, very much – like to try.

I burn.

And suddenly, I realise – he must have felt this way for – decades. Yet he has not spoken, thinking it would shame me, disgust me, drive me away. He has suffered this to protect me, as he saw it, from himself.

How long? And I find I cannot remember, I am not sure when this began – it has been so long a part of him.

Oh my poor love.

I hope – I hope it will seem worth the wait.

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

Eventually, without meaning it, I find myself back at the gates of what was, for so long, my home. 

I daresay Asfaloth misses his stable.

Even though I cannot believe it will ever be my home again, I cannot believe he will let me stay, I give in. 

There seems no need to punish my horse. 

Perhaps in honour, as if I had now any honour, I should offer to return Erestor his comb, that I took in deception, and allow him to find one who can love him as he should be loved, allow him to sail with a whole heart.


	24. Chapter 24

At last, at last, the bells of his harness are heard, he approaches.

As ever, someone calls me, and I go to welcome him.

He rides in, it is late afternoon, the sun is already falling, the light showing him more golden than ever.

And his beauty takes my breath away.

He dismounts, and begins to fuss with his horse, with harness, as he ever does. Somehow the usual – bounce – is not there. 

I wait, and eventually he runs out of things to do. He comes to me, and I cannot read the expression on his face, it is a look I have never seen there before.

I reach up to his ears, I touch, and he touches me, a look almost of – can it be – exhaustion – defeat – in his eyes.

“Well, Erestor, I am back,” he says.

“So you are, meleth-nin,” I answer, “so you are. And I daresay you could do with a bath, and a change of clothes before the evening meal. Your usual impeccable timing has not let you down. Come, Findel-nin, come in.”

He looks at me,  
“We – we had words – there are unfinished – matters – to speak between us,” he starts, but I put a finger to his lips,

“No. Not here. Later. You are home. That is all, and at this moment, that is enough,” and I lead him inside.

He is indeed tired, we are almost in my chamber before he seems to realise, and as he hesitates, I take his hand.

“Bath first,” I say, for I know, I can see, he is filthy, and exhausted, and in no state to think. Without giving him time to protest, I help him strip, as the bath fills, and almost push him into it. I stay by him while he washes, talking of – nothing – telling him the little things which have happened here, kittens, horses, squabbles, wine spilt, lest he fall asleep.

That is definitely not part of my plan.

After a time he gets out, and I watch him towel himself off, not for the first time, but – it feels like the first time.

Never have I stared at him like this.

Never have I felt this before. This need to reach out, to touch – not just ears, or hair but all of him.

Never have I looked at him with – I suppose this is desire. 

It does not feel like desire – I have always thought desire meant simply to – to want. This feels more like – need. Urgent. Almost – sick with it.

Never have I thought about how – tall – he is, how – big – he is, with such a very – specific – thought.

“I had best go to my room,” he says, “I need clothes before I go down to the Hall.”

I take a breath.

“Not yet,” I start, “not yet. I have things I would say to you. You left angry. You left me thinking. I do not know what you have thought, and I would hear it, later, but hear me first. I love you. You know this, and you have said you love me, and I have believed you. If that is not so, you had best speak.” I wait, but he is silent, looking down, “Very well. Then – this – this matter – this – more-than-combing. You implied you want this, but – think it not – not something we should do? I knew nothing of it. Now that I do, I find – I find I want it also. And I think – if we can want it – then there is no reason to not at the least, try. It makes no sense to think otherwise.”

He makes a noise that is somewhere between anger and despair,  
“You do not understand,” he says, “it is – forbidden. The Valar – Erestor, do you not think I have thought on this over and over? This – thing – is forbidden to elves.”

I reach out to him, but he moves away,  
“No,” I say, “no. Glorfindel, meleth-nin, I cannot believe they are so cruel. No. I will not believe it. It would make no sense to give us such desires – wants – needs – and then forbid them.” I look, but he is still looking down, still a look of such pain on his face, such despair, and I know he does not believe me. Then – somehow – it comes to me, what I should say, what I really want to say, and I can only hope they are the words he needs to hear, “Beloved, I find – I do not care. If the Valar cannot forgive me for loving you – needing to love you – wanting to love you – this way – then – then I care not for them. I love you. And I would rather be here in Arda, or anywhere else, with you, than in the Blessed Realm without you.”

He gives a long sigh, and I see a tension – a tension I had not even known was there, and guilty I feel that I have not seen this – disappear from the very set of his shoulders. He looks up and our eyes meet, and I think perhaps now all will be well, but no. There is still pain in his face, and he speaks again,

“Thank you. Of all words, that is the greatest gift you could give me. But still – this cannot be. I would not do that to you, take your forever from you, grateful though I am that you offer it. But more, I would not take your today. This thing – is dishonourable. The way it is spoken of – the way – those who do – are talked of – I would not do that to you.”

Ah. So this is it.

“Spoken by whom?” I ask, “By Men? By those you have fought beside in the long years? You forget, Glorfindel, I was a warrior once. I know how elves, even, speak when they are far from home, and among other warriors, and wish to conceal their – their softer side, their heart-longings. Is that it? I have heard elves – good elves, kind elves – speak of their children, their wives, in ways that none would do so at home. It means nothing. It is just – male pride showing off.” For in my experience, female warriors seem to keep the truth of their hearts better, seem not to speak in such a way. At least, I have never heard them – perhaps they do among themselves. 

I look to see if this is helping, but he is still staring at the floor.

“Besides,” I say, “who is to know what we do, in our own chamber?” well, I think, according to those books, if we do it right, everyone in earshot will, but I do not mention this.

He shakes his head, and I realise that was the wrong thing to say.

“No. What I cannot own to, I will not do. And this – oh Erestor, I have heard the way they talk – it is not honourable. It would shame you – me – us. I am sorry to have forced you to join me in my pain, but – let us not speak of this again.”

“Yet you were happy to speak of it – this – to that dwarf,” I am angry now, jealous again, “happy enough to think of – of the fair Thranduilion doing this – this – fucking.” There is silence a moment, he is shocked, and I speak again, “no. Sorry, that is the wrong word, isn’t it? That – that is a male and female. This – I suppose I should say, you were happy enough to think of fair Thranduilion being buggered. Or whatever else the two of them were doing, whatever else you discussed. Cock-sucking. Or – this matter of games – of having to obey? Of, I suppose ropes, and punishments, and so forth. Yes. You may well look surprised. I have been doing some – research. Reading. Elrond always kept a good library – better than we knew, it seems.” I stop, angry with myself now too. This is not how I meant it to go.

In my imagination, this was – more like one of those books. There was sweet understanding, and touches, and learning, and – and joy.

Not this pain, and anger.

Jealousy.

I stand there, waiting to see what he will do or say next, thinking that, I suppose, by book convention, he should retort, we should shout, then – then he would – I do not know – sweep me off my feet – kiss me in anger, and find – it lead to passion.

But this is not a book.

He sighs, tired, miserable, hurt.

“Then I am sorry for that too. Sorry that you should have seen me trying – trying to act more worldly wise than I am, trying to impress, trying to – bolster my pride and resolve with false laughter,” he looks at me, and, “but above all else, I am sorry I have allowed you to be drawn into this torment. I never meant to hurt you. I have tried – so hard – to keep this from you, my Erestor, meleth-nin. I am flawed, but I thought your – purity – might keep me whole. Instead, I seem to have broken us both. I will go again. Tomorrow. I will ride out again. I – I will trouble you no more. But – may I keep your comb? Please?”

I look at him in horror, hoping I misunderstand what he is saying,

“You will ride out – go? No. No, you are only just returned. If for no other reason – you must rest your horse. I – I cannot bear you to go so soon. And what is this talk of comb-keeping? You have my comb. I vowed forever, and I meant it. As did you. Glorfindel, meleth-nin, mellon-nin, come here, and let me comb you. Comb me. And – and perhaps – perhaps we can learn – something – someway to live with this knowledge.” 

Wearily he comes to me, he sits beside me, and lets me run his comb through his hair. Wonderful hair, beautiful hair. 

I speak the usual sort of words, nonsense, that he likes when he is returned like this, and I feel him relax into my hands. Our songs join, quietly at first, unsure, but gradually we learn each other again.

After a time, he pulls himself up, and reaches to find my comb from among his clothes – he has carried it where he always does, I see, next to his heart – and begins to care for me in return.

He is so tired, he is in reverie before we are truly finished, but, right now, I do not care. If he will just stay here tonight, reverie with me, then – then all will be well. Somehow.

I lie beside him a long time before my own rest comes.

Holding his hand, as he wanders his dream-paths, I wonder of what he thinks. I watch him, and he is beautiful, wonderful, he is my hero, all the hero I have ever wanted. I want to touch, I want to reach out and touch him in ways I never have, ways I never knew existed. I want to run my hands over him, I want – I want to reach and kiss, taste him, bury myself in him. 

But – if he is not awake, if he does not wish it, then I cannot.

All these years he must have felt this, and never have I woken to find him – taking advantage of my rest. 

I will wait. I am an elf.

We are supposed to be good at waiting.

But I could curse myself for having got today so wrong, after all my thoughts.

I know my Glorfindel. He is not one to be defeated easily. If he says no, then doubtless he means it. And at the thought that he may stand by his resolve, he may ride away tomorrow, I may never see him again, I may never hold him, or touch him as I have learnt to wish for, that – oh dear Elbereth, no – that this may have been our last combing – I feel as though something inside me breaks. 

I feel the tears run silently from my eyes into my hair, as I lie beside him. I love him so, but I do not know how to help him see it.

Eventually, I too am tired, worn out by our fight, and I drift into dreams.

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

Last night I fell into reverie in his arms – and it was sweet. It felt like forgiveness, it felt like home.

This morning, I wake, and he is still in his dreams, and I look at him, and I know – there is no forgiveness. This cannot be home. 

I will not steal out like some thief, though I have stolen from him something worth more than jewels, more than gold, I have stolen his innocence, his peace of mind, his heart. I will do him the justice of saying farewell.

I will let myself have this last time to look at him, to print the memory within my heart, that in my dreams I can return to this hour, and watch over his rest again.

Beautiful he is, as he ever was to me, though not to many others I have come to understand over the years, I know not why. 

Our words come back to me, and I am ashamed of my anger. He did not deserve it. He tried – as he has always tried – so hard – to be what I would have. He cared for me, he comforted me; I was cold, I was tired, I was sad, and he gave me everything. He offered – I will not think of what he offered, not in detail – but he offered to stay with me in my exile from the lands across the sea. I cannot allow him to do this, I love him so, and something inside me breaks at the thought of never seeing him again.


	25. Chapter 25

When I wake, it is because he is moving. He is still beside me, still unclothed, but he has sat up, and is looking down at me, with a most – unreadable expression. Uncertainly, I smile at him, hoping this will start the day off a bit better,

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

He shakes his head. 

“No. I am not. Last night. You – I had not expected – I did not know what to make of your words.” 

I wait. 

Then, as he remains silent, I reach up to his hair, his wonderful golden hair, and run my fingers through it. As ever it tangles round them, and – and I pull him down until his face is close to mine.

“I did not choose the right ones,” I say, “I reasoned, and then – then shouted when you would not listen. I should not have said most of that.” 

He closes his eyes, and I think I see pain returning, as he swallows, and then,  
“I will go if that is what you wish. Or I will stay, and we will not speak of this again. I will not shout, or rage at you anymore.”

I smile,  
“Good, no more shouting,” I say, and pull him that last tiny distance, “because I have found the words now. I love you. Kiss me.” and I see his eyes open, looking straight into mine as our mouths meet, I see the pain begin to recede, as – as we find this is not quite so easy as we had been led to believe.

It takes a moment or so, perhaps longer, before we find a way to do this and breathe, and look at each other, and hold each other. Then he smiles,

“I think,” he says, hesitantly, “I think you may be persuading me to think again. I – I do not see how there can be so very much wrong with this.”

“Nothing wrong,” I say, and I lean forward again, “not with this.”

After a moment he pulls back again,

“There – there cannot be anything very wrong in something so – so gentle,” he says, still doubtful, and I can see there are tears near the surface again, and I wonder what has gone so wrong that he is so afraid – Glorfindel, afraid. It does not seem possible. “You – you are so sweet, so – soft – so wonderful – oh Erestor,” he touches my lips, my face, and I am tempted to taste his fingers, but I do not. 

I wait. 

And this time, this time he leans towards me.

After a long, long moment we part again, and he says, breathlessly,

“But – mortals do this? They only have a short time to practise.”

I laugh.

“And they seem to manage,” I say, “so – I wonder how proficient we will one day be, with all the time we have?”

And suddenly we are both laughing, and holding each other close, and kissing, and kissing and – it is not like the books said.

It is better.

 

 

As the light changes, as the grey dawn changes to a clear morning, we stay, wrapped round each other. Hands in hair, hands on ears – we are still elves, whatever else we may learn we are not about to abandon this comfort, this pleasure – mouths – mouths learning the taste, the feel, the – the wonder that is this – kissing. His tongue within me, so – big, and forceful – and – all the clichés, for I am sure they are clichés, from those books come to my mind – but I find that – sometimes things are no less wonderful for being a little – predictable. He is bigger, and stronger than I, there is no room for debate on that, and so – so I suppose that will dictate how this is. 

But, I find, there is no reason why I cannot let my tongue chase his, and explore him also – and it seems he is very, very willing that I should, from the noises he is making.

Eventually, I find I need to pull back, away, to wipe my mouth – I think perhaps we are not very good at this yet, there surely should not be so much – dampness – and to stretch. 

“Erestor?” he looks at me, and I see the fear is back again, oh my love, have you been waiting so long that you cannot believe in this? “I – I am sorry. Is this – am I – not what you – do you begin to think it is wrong?”

I run my hands through his hair, again,   
“No, never. Stop apologising,” I say, “it is just – you are heavy. My arm is going numb where your weight is on it. I need to move,” I let my hands run further down, “and – and I wanted to look at you. To learn you – differently. Yes?”

“Yes,” he gasps, “very much – yes.” And oh the wonder that is him, how good he feels, how – oh.

“Oh,” I say, “I did not realise – I thought – oh.” And I see him smile, partly in amusement at how my words desert me, so I try again, “that is, I thought those books were – exaggerating. But it seems – not. That – you are – so perfect. I want – I – I –“ and then, quickly before I lose my nerve, “can I touch?”

“Please,” he manages, and I realise he is reaching out towards me – and – then his hand is on me – on – that part of me – and I am holding him and – somehow we seem to know – what to do – I suppose – like this – yes – and his other hand pulls me towards him, and our mouths meet again, and start the kissing again, and all the time we are both – not singing, not as elves should, but – some strange noise from the back of the throat, both desperate, and needy, and – and to hear him is so good, and – and oh Valar, oh Valar, oh Valar.

We stop, not quite exhausted, we are elves, we do not become exhausted easily, but – perhaps the word is ‘finished’. His hand is still in my hair, holding me close, and he sighs,  
“Oh Erestor. That – was almost worth waiting all these years. Almost worth everything.”

I lean into him, smiling,  
“I think – from my research – it is supposed to be better – last longer – next time. And – other – ways. At least, so the books said,” I hesitate, wondering if he will be shocked, but it seems not, “it is somewhat – messy – though. I suppose one should have a cloth ready. And if – if there was oil – it would be worse.” I frown, thinking, “No wonder those two guests of ours spent so much time washing.”

He laughs,  
“Erestor, I do so love you. Eminently practical, as ever. But – oil? You mean – that you would – you think – we might? Yes?” and I see he is wide-eyed. I do not know what else he expected. I am not generally one to do things by halves.

I shrug,  
“Well, we may as well be refused entry to Valinor for a multitude of reasons, as for one. Although I am still not sure about that. After all, the Valar made us, they made us this way. But – right this moment – I do not care. I love you, meleth-nin, and the smile on your face is worth anything to me.”

He flushes, and grins wider,  
“If you could see yourself, melethron, you would know why I am smiling. I have never seen you so sweaty, so dishevelled, or so happy.”

Melethron. Yes. I suppose so. Not just mellon-nin, not just Glorfindel-nin, Findel-nin, not just meleth-nin, but – melethron-nin.

I say it aloud, tasting the word, as I have tasted him. 

I like it.

And now I am flushing, and we are both laughing, and – and kissing again.

It will be well, I think, it must be. He must understand, he must believe this – this cannot be so very wrong. Not when it leaves us both so happy, so – golden.

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

Truly I have never seen my Erestor look so happy, or so untidy. I cannot take my eyes off him, I cannot take my hands off him.

And, for all that the dark whispers are back in my mind, for all that I have fallen, I have dragged my dear one down with me, for all that I have done all that I said I would not do – I can feel the same silly smile on my own face, the same need to hold, to touch, to cling that he is showing.

I do not think I have ever known my Erestor so – I search for a word – joyous. Can something that leaves us both so – so shining – for I know I am the same, I find I cannot remember when last I felt so happy – can this really be so very wrong? It – it was only touching, only kissing – it – we did not – anything else. Perhaps – perhaps this would be enough?

But I know it is not, it has only increased my longing for more, for more of him, to taste, to – oh my Erestor – to possess him, now that I have seen his pleasure, now that I have felt that – I want more. I want everything. And he – he in his sweet love, his – I cannot but use the word, even now, his innocence – he is offering everything, he is saying we could, that there is no difference. 

No difference. That I have stained him already, that he can now never be free of what I have done.

“I love you,” he says, his hands still touching, still gentle on me, his eyes on my face, “Melethron-nin, you will not really ride away, will you? Not now? Please.”

I look at him, as he lies there, and I know I am the architect of his ruin, I know I should feel guilt and shame at what I have done, what I have brought my love.

“I – I do not know,” I say, and it is not the answer he wants, or deserves, but his question has brought back all the doubts, all the fear. I love him so, I cannot bear to face what I have done to him. I remember my resolve, that I should leave, that I should let him go, let him find happiness with another, that this is not for us, and I – I must stand by it. I will not pull him down with me, I will not hold him in this triumph that will turn to dust and ashes and hate and despair when he begins to understand what I have done to him. He – he is so worthy – surely, surely the Valar even now would forgive him – if – if I am not there. If I take the sin on myself, and so, “I do not know what I should do. I love you. But – if I were to go – perhaps – you could – forget. Be forgiven. I know you said you would stay with me, but – I cannot do that. I am sorry. I did not mean – I should have stopped –“ I break off, because the happiness is leaving his face, and now I do not know what to do.

 

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

 

I look at him, my proud, stubborn, brave warrior, and I – I almost despair. 

Still, still at this moment, when all should be golden, and perfect, and loving, and full of promise for the future, still he is doubtful, still he is hurting. I do not know why, I do not know what he was taught when he was young, so long, so long ago, it is not something of which we have ever talked. This – this which we have found – it is unnecessary, it is perhaps strange for elves – it could be shocking – it is – but it is hardly evil, hardly harmful – how can it be if we both wish it, if we both find such delight in it? I – I find it hard to believe the Valar, distant as they are, could really care what two elves in love do together in the privacy of their rooms.

And, as I said, if they do, then I think them not worthy of my praise.

But it seems to me that is not the way to speak to my dear love, my lover, my poor, scared one. 

I am silent for a moment, thinking, letting him see by my face how his words hurt me.

I am Erestor. I have been warrior, I have been librarian, I have been scholar, I have been councillor, I have been advisor – advisor to one who was known for his wisdom, councillor to one who was asked by many for guidance. And though, at this moment, I do not feel any of those things, at this moment all I feel is rejected lover, seduced and cast aside, though I let my expression show it, I am calling on all my skills, seeking the way to break down his determination. I will fight this, I will use all my knowledge, all my rhetoric, all my good sense, my cunning, my understanding of him. 

For he is wrong. His heroics will leave us both in agony, and if I know my Glorfindel, any who cross him will pay in blood.

I love him, and I know him. His strengths and his weaknesses.

This time, I will not let him fall into some crevasse of despair.


	26. Chapter 26

“Listen,” he says, “listen to me. Stop trying to play the – the bloody hero. I love you, I want you, that was – that was amazing. I read the books – yes, maybe I should not have, but I did. I am Erestor, if I want to know something, I look in books, I find out facts.” He pauses, “well, actually, I think some of them were made up, I am very dubious about some of it – it did not sound possible – but. Anyway. If you leave – I will ache for you. I will lie here alone thinking of you, and I – I will learn to pleasure myself thinking of you,” he grits his teeth, and I see this is as difficult for him to say, as it is for me to hear, “yes, I will. And that will be your fault, just as much as if you stay here and love me, and let me love you.” he sighs, “And – sooner or later, you will make a mistake. Yes, even Glorfindel will be exhausted, and miserable, and alone, and hungry, or drunk, and you will make a mistake, and you will die.” I look away, knowing that in my heart that is what I deserve, but he goes on, “And Asfaloth will find his way home here, with your corpse or your blood on him – think of my face that day, Glorfindel. Think of my face when some stranger walks in, and tells the news that they buried an elf outside some village of Men. Think of my pain when I hear they found the remains of horse and warrior, chewed, gnawed by wolves, ruined and unrecognisable. And that day will come if you walk away now. Glorfindel, what do you think will happen to me then? Do you think I will shrug, and sail West? Do you? I will tell you what you condemn me to, if you do this. You condemn me to years of pain wondering, and worrying, and running to meet every traveller to ask for news. You condemn me to living unknowing year after year, hoping, hoping that you come back, dreading the manner of your death. And in the end, when you have made your error, when you have taken the coward’s way out – when I hear of it – I will fade, I will die to follow you, to find you again. Not some slow, lingering, grief, no, that is not my way, nor the way of my kin. I will turn my face to the wall, and I will leave this world, as my father when my mother died, as my people do. But then – then when I come to you in those Halls of Mandos, which you have told me of with sadness in the long dark nights, then when I stand before you, lost without you, then will you hold me? Or will you still turn me away?”

I am silent. I have no words.

He reaches out to me again, and, voice trembling, “Oh my Glorfindel, if you will let me love you then, love me now. If you ache at the tale I tell you of our future – change it. Stay here with me, or travel with me, I care not, but do not separate me from you. Where you go, I wish to be. I love you. Every way there is.” 

I cannot look at him, I love him so, I do not know anymore what I should do, what path to choose. Quietly, gently he takes my unresisting hand, and asks,

“Glorfindel, melethron-nin, why are you so sure this is wrong? How can it be?”

There is a moment when I cannot answer. How to put something so basic into words? Then I manage,

“Because – because we are elves. We are not supposed – it – this – this sort of thing – is only to be between husband and wife, only for elflings. It is not supposed to be – fun. And I – I have wanted you so – I have – Erestor, if it were not bad – it – the want – I would not have done – and thought – such – things.”

He waits, but I cannot speak.

“What?” he asks, then seeing there is no answer, for I cannot control my voice, I do not know how to find the words for all that I have done amiss, I do not know how to apologise enough for all the things that now – now when there is almost hope – tell me I am not worthy, I am tainted, I must leave, then he tilts my lowered head up to look at him, “no. Tell me later. Tell me this, only. Have you hurt any? Have you lied to any other than I?”

I shake my head, the tears still in my eyes, still unshed, voice still gone, and he leans forward and kisses me again, so soft, so gentle, his hand touching my face,

“Then I will learn to forgive the rest. You will learn to live with it. You will tell me, later, and if there is any amends to be made, we will see it done. As for – what is supposed or not supposed to be – I do not think the Valar ever said fighting and killing were supposed to be fun, and that never bothered you,” he laughs a little, seeing I am shocked, I have no answer, and continues, “and if you believe that any husband and wife, elves though they be, make love – that is the word you want, my dear – purely and only for elflings – believe me, I am bloody sure you are wrong. Apart from any others, think of our lord and lady. You know, as well as I, how long they were married before our boys were born. I do not think they merely combed all that time.”

I am shocked. That my Erestor, quiet demure advisor, could think like this – yet he is as sensible, as logical as ever, I suppose. He may well be right.

I do not think I have ever heard him swear so many times in such quick succession though.

I lean against him.

“Truly?” I ask, “You – you mean it?”

“Truly,” he says, and it has been a long while that I have learnt to trust anything said by that voice. I find I can relax.

Perhaps – perhaps there is some kind of hope for us.

“I want to hear all the rest of it,” he says, “but not now. Now – I have other plans.” And before I know what to think, he is in my arms again, and kissing, and kissing at me, and – oh dear Eru, I do not care, I do not care, anything, Valinor is well-lost for this.

“Want,” he says, breathlessly, and then – he is pulling away, and I hear myself make a most – pathetic – noise – and I am reaching after him, and he, he is scrabbling in a bedside cupboard, and then – oh then he is back, and I am clutching, and he is kissing my face, and I realise the tears I have held back so long are wet on my cheeks, and he is saying, over and over, “It is alright now, I am here, I swear to you, I am here, it is alright, just – oh love, how long has it been, how long have you been like this?”

“Too long,” I say, “those bloody dwarves – Bilbo’s dwarves – then. That was the start of it.”

He snorts, in a most undignified manner,  
“Of course. The one time I leave you and Lindir to cope. I suppose if I had been around – either none of this would have happened, or we would have spoken of it earlier.” He pulls me to face him again, “enough. I said. Later. Right now, right now, I want this. I want to know.”

And before I can ask what it is he wants, I see that in his hand he has – he has oil. He is pouring it onto his hands, and mine, and – oh, these books he speaks of – I make a note in the back of my mind to ask about them later – but right now – his hands are on me, and he is touching me and – oh sweet love – I am desperate again, but he stops, and as I groan, he gasps words,

“Wait, please, I want – oh I want – you – yes?” and then I see where his hand is going now, and he is touching himself – inside – and his eyes meet mine, and he looks – hungry – he pushes me back onto the bed, and kneels astride me, “want your hand,” he says, and I have never seen him like this. No. I have. Long ago, I saw him, I saw Erestor the warrior, before he put his sword away, I saw him command elves, and now that same fierceness is there, which for so long has been put away while he played the efficient self-effacing advisor. I am lost as I look at him, I am his, and I reach out, as he tells me, and he is leaning against me, my face lost in his hair – oh his hair, and I find I can just – yes – I can lick along his ear-tip and he makes the most wonderful sound I have ever heard.

He still has one hand on me, the other bracing himself against the headboard of the bed, his face against my shoulder, “want your hand,” he says again, and I realise I have been distracted, but now, oh now, I can reach, and yes. 

“So hot, so tight,” I say, and I feel him – laugh.

“Oh my Glorfindel,” he manages, panting against me, “really? Such a cliché? Is that the best you can – oh yes – say?”

And somehow, that steadies me, and I remember how I love him, and I can think, a little,

“Like this?” I ask, accepting now that he seems to know at least as much as I – what it is to be a scholar – “like this? Is that right? More?”

He pants again, clinging, but,  
“Yes. More.” I obey, curling my fingers a little, and I find – I find that the sound he made when I licked his ear is no longer the most wonderful sound I have ever heard.

“Cannot – cannot wait – I need – I – please?” I am begging.

“Coherent as ever,” he says, and I do not know what it will take to rob him of his composure completely, but oh I want to find out, and I think I will have to practice, and then – then he is moving on my hand and my thoughts are lost. He holds me so tight in hand, and then – then he is in control again, “stop. Not hand.” 

Again, I can do nothing but obey him, as he moves back, and then – then – 

“Oh Fuck,” I say, and he – he is laughing again,

“Yes,” breathless, but he is laughing, “yes, I suppose that is close enough. Feels – so – good – but – oh Valar – Glorfindel – you are – so – big – going – to – hurt – oh like that, yes.” 

All I can do is hold his hips, but he takes no notice of me, he is riding – and – I do not care if this is one of his clichés, but he is riding me – and I – I think I might lose my mind. I do not know what to do – I do not know if I should touch him again, as we touched before – but – he seems – not to need it – and I – I must close my eyes, I cannot watch – he said it should be slower, but I – I fear I cannot be slow. He is so – so – wonderful to feel, to see and – oh I am needing to move – 

“Do not you dare,” he says, and I open my eyes, to find the warrior back, “do not you dare finish yet. I need –“ but whatever he was going to say is lost, as somehow – he is – oh sweet Erestor – he is digging his nails – I had never realised how long his nails are – into my arms, and crying out, “oh yes, oh yes.”

I think it is allowed to finish now, and I move my hips in a way I did not know existed, pushing up and into him, 

“Oh Valar, oh Valar, oh my Erestor.” I say and I hold him, and he is there.

 

We stay very still for a while, just clinging, and I think I am not now the only one weeping. His hands are in my hair, and I find I am stroking him also.

“Love you,” he says, and gently, carefully, he is moving off me, and I am helping, worried now lest he be hurt, but – he still has that wonderful smile on his face, and I know I must look the same. Suddenly he laughs, “I notice you did not mind telling the Valar all about it – I thought you would not want to draw attention to us.”

I push him, gently, and he laughs again.

“Somehow,” I say, “it seemed important to have a witness. That this is – is as much as vowing. This is – this ties us. Again. More.”

Old fashioned, archaic elf, remember. If this is not wrong, and it does not feel wrong, then – then it matters. It is – to love with your body – is more than a vow even. It cannot be undone, cannot be broken, cannot be taken from you. 

Only One. Ever.

So I was taught, long, long ago. So elves still learn.

So it is.

My Erestor. And I am his.

Foolish, romantic and archaic as he thinks me.

He raises his brow, silently.

“Stop that,” using my best command voice, the one that never, ever worked on him, “I am not in bed with Elrond.” And now we are both laughing.


	27. Chapter 27

Afterwards, I find that is what I remember most about that day. 

Laughing.

So much laughter.

And I realise that in all my imaginings, in all my longings, I had not thought how – how joyous, how natural such things would be. How to finally touch, and explore, and kiss, and – and love – and make love, is that what he called it, I did not know it could be called that, I did not know – that it would all be – just so right, so easy, so – and the word sounds too simple – but – so much fun.

I suppose my wise Erestor knew. At least, he does not seem surprised, when for hours, hours upon hours, all we want is to lie here, hands and mouths busy, learning, breaking off from time to time to vow more love, and oh my love, he has learnt words in my own tongue, words I have never dared hope to hear, in the language of my childhood, of home, and he – he is my home, and I hold him, so close, and – for we are still elves – we find at times we need to comb, to retreat to what we know.

And even that – that is made anew. Now there is no more hiding, no more lies, no more concealment, and when his touch pleases me in this new way, when his hand on my ear, his voice with mine makes me ache, and need, and want – now I can say, I can ask, and – and his delight in me is equal to mine in him.

Hours pass.

That first day, that first day, the hours pass in joy, in laughter, in being together. 

I ask him, after a while, to show me these books, and – I am rewarded when he flushes. I did not know he could flush so, I had never seen it in all these years.

“Most – most I have returned,” he says, “and they are very silly. At least – the storylines are silly, the characters too often are vapid, the writing – clichéd. The situations far-fetched and improbable.”

It is my turn to raise my brow,

“So,” I say, “you did not read them then? Not cover to cover?” and how I love to see this flush as he shrugs, trying for nonchalance,

“There was not a lot of option,” he claims, “I had to simply read what there was.”

And I laugh.

“I do not believe you,” I say, and I roll lazily onto him again, and oh to be able to do this, to hold him under me, to feel how he loves this, and know, I know, he is mine, and I his, and soon – soon we will – love – again, for it is love, this having him, this – being in him, surrounded by him, buried safe within him – this is love, nothing else, but now, now I want to tease him, so, holding him down, I say, “I think you enjoyed them. I think – for all some of them may not be deathless prose – I think they must have had something in them, for my Erestor to be so – interested in what they taught him.”

For a moment, he looks away, and I fear I have brought shame back here, here where I thought I had finally found freedom, but then his eyes meet mine again, and he smiles, and moves – oh how he moves under me – and I – I gasp, and lose my hold on him, and – a thing unheard of – he is out from underneath, and sitting astride me, pushing my head down into the pillows. 

“Yes,” he whispers into my ear, and licks the tip until I cry out, “yes. I was very interested. Your Erestor has still some chapters he would like to try.”

I cannot think what.

There is nothing – nothing loving, nothing good – that I have heard of we have not yet tried, and I – I do not wish for any – games. I am no dwarf, no mortal, I find, I need nothing more than this. But – long ago, I learnt that when Erestor sets out to research something, he will find all there is to know. 

So I lie very still, waiting.

He leans down to my ear again, and he speaks, so soft, so loving, and I – I feel tears start in my eyes again as he says,

“I love you, my Glorfindel, my beloved, my lover, and I know you. I know, I can feel, you are tensing up again. You are about to start thinking, and worrying, and convincing yourself this is not good – when we both can feel how good it is, how right it is. Relax for me. Trust me. Just – just for once – let go. Do not think any more, close your eyes, and let me – let me try to please you.”

I fold my arms under my head, and do as I am told – and it is a most odd feeling. I cannot remember the last time I truly was off my guard like this. At first, at first he simply runs his hands over me, through my hair, stroking my ears, down over my back, and oh it is good. All the time he is talking – speaking sweet words that are everything to me, words of how he loves me, how all is well, how we never need be apart again, how he is mine, and I am his forever.

I daresay he can feel me relaxing, feel the tension leaving, and then – then he stretches forward, and I feel his weight shift, before there is a cool liquid between my shoulders. I twitch, I am tempted to move, to throw him off and reverse our positions again – I am not sure about this, but,

“I never rubbed you down after your bath. All those days in the field, in the saddle, your muscles will suffer, my love,” he says, and the feeling is indeed welcome. Long, long it has been since any cared for me in this way – once it was something as common as combing, long ago any group of warriors would do this – but – not in this new world. Not since Men became so widespread, and all our customs were adapted to fit theirs.

This, I suppose, became something for – lovers. 

Something of which until now – I never dared dream. 

It occurs to me to wonder how he knows, how he has learnt this, and I feel – for the first time in all my life – I feel an uncertain jealousy.

“How do you -?” I begin, and – oh how he knows me. He laughs, 

“How do I know – I am not a fool. I am Erestor. Long ago, long ago my love, I read of the customs and ways of Gondolin. For years I wondered, I waited for you to ask me for this. All those times you came back from patrol tired, and aching, and you would bath – and never, ever come to me and ask – I wondered if you thought – that I would think you old-fashioned. I did not like to offer. I thought – perhaps it was something – wrong in the books,” 

I laugh,   
“Wash your mouth out, Erestor-nin, to say such a thing. Erestor to say a book might be wrong,”

He slaps me, lightly, and laughs,  
“I wondered. Or if it was – that you did not wish me to, because I had not fought at your side.”

I feel his sadness through his hands, and I shake my head,   
“Never that. Only – it is not done now. And – I get weary of always being different. And then – then I could not bear you to touch me more.”

He hears the break in my voice, and his hands are so kind, so loving, and he says again,

“It is alright now. I am here. Always. And – and oh my Glorfindel, my golden one, all I want is to touch you. More.” The feel of his hands, so smoothly working, so good, oh it is so good, and then – then he is moving down, not just shoulders and back – but – oh. 

“Relax,” he says again, “I am not going to do anything you do not want. Trust me.” he is sitting on my legs now, and his hands working on me, and then – then there is more oil, and he is working it into me, and – somehow – I had never thought of being – underneath, of letting my Erestor do this – but – those clever fingers are – so very, very clever, as they circle, and almost, and nearly, and I find – I find I am wanting, wanting so, I cannot help it, I raise my hips without thinking, and oh he is fast, he has a pillow under me, and it feels – very good indeed as his hands are back, touching again. “Yes?” he asks, and I make a wanting noise – I cannot actually ask, I cannot say yes, but he knows me, and then – oh so gentle, so – right. 

I sigh, and it feels – it feels like coming home, being touched like this. So – peaceful somehow. All the while he keeps kneading at me, and that is good, and I – I realise I can feel him hard and wanting against my thigh as he leans forward, 

“Yes,” I say, slowly, quietly, I feel so – languorous, “very much yes. Whatever – You – Want.”

He is very slow, and gentle, and – all the things our earlier couplings – is that the word, I think hazily – were not, but still – so much love, so much need. Carefully, almost as though he hopes I will hardly notice, he works finger after finger into me – two, three, and oh it feels so good. He is just massaging me still, not trying to make me cry out, no urgency here, but – inexorable somehow.

“Feels good,” I say, still head down in the pillow, still utterly relaxed, and ready for him.

“Yes,” and I hear a gasp in his voice, “yes, and it is going to feel better soon. Oh my love, I want you so.”

The need in his voice makes me tighten around him, and he – he sounds so good. Still he keeps his hand in me, as he reaches forward to the oil again, and then – I can guess what he is doing, and then the hand leaves me, and I cannot help myself, I open my legs further, raise my hips in need, and then one hand is on my back, holding me still, pressing me down, and then – oh then he is inside me, and both arms are round me, holding me tight, as he slowly, lazily almost, moves.

It takes a long while. 

Very slow, very loving. Very – very – satisfying, when at last, at last, he moves his hand on me as he moves his hips against me, and I cry out, my world exploding, even as he is whispering my name, and his love for me, over and over into my ear.

Even then, we do not move for a long time.

“I love you,” he says, at last, “and do not you ever tell me again this is wrong. This is right. This – us – is good. And I think we have now established, I have corrupted you with my reading, as much as you me with your – whatever you saw those dwarves doing. What were they doing?”

“Such grammar,” I cannot resist, “Erestor, really. ‘Us is good.’ We are good, surely. Yes. You have corrupted me. Those dwarves – do you know, all they did was kiss.” I feel his surprise, as for a moment, he thinks he has shocked me, and then he rolls off, and we look at each other, and I wink, and – he laughs.

Laughter.

Laughter, and holding, and saying words we thought never to say, and holding so tight, and – and loving.

That is how the day passes. 

Hours pass, as only elves, I think, can let hours pass. 

My Erestor, my so-sensible one, has thought, and I find he not only has wine in his room, but he has thought to warn that when I am home I will be tired, I will not wish to eat with others. Such is his personality, that none questions why I should be tired when I never was before, none questions why food for both of us should be brought to his room.

Indeed, it is days before it occurs to me that they might. When it does, he shrugs it away.

“What business is it of theirs? You are their legendary hero,” he smiles, a secret smile, and adds, “they have not seen you exhausted, as I now have, so well-loved you cannot even keep your eyes open in reverie.” And I know that is triumph on his face, and I wonder at it.

Who knew my Erestor could be so – and I do not, even now, have the word. But his triumph is my salvation.

Nothing that makes my love so – so shining – can be anything but blessed.

And we both know, this, this is forever.


	28. Chapter 28

Much, much later, I make my confession. 

I tell him of how I wondered, how I longed all these years. 

And he calls me a fool for not researching properly.

I tell him of how I listened to the words of Men, and took what they said of honour as truth.

And he calls me a fool for forgetting we are elves, and many things are different. He adds that even among Men, customs vary. 

I tell him of how I ran from him so often, so desperate to hide my shame, my need, my fear.

And he holds me, and says I must never do so again.

I tell him of how I wondered about Thranduilion.

And he laughs, telling me I would be bored by so simple a one, so sweet a one, so young a one. Besides, I am too tall and not hairy enough for him. And we laugh.

I tell him of how the dwarf spoke to me, trying to help, and I misled him with my words.

And he laughs, telling me Elvellon is no fool, he was not misled, and that is why Thranduilion spoke to him. Besides, I will have made the dwarf happy, confirming all their prejudices about elves – Noldor elves – who speak to deceive.

I tell him – and I cannot look at him as I do so – of those dark imaginings, those games I heard spoken of, and how – how I almost came to think I would want that from him.

And he laughs, he laughs, he says he read of those things also, and thought them ridiculous, that if mortals wish to fill their short lives with such foolishness, that is all very well, but we are elves, and we love, and that is surely enough? And I know, as I have known since his sweet lips met mine so tenderly, that he is right, that I need nothing more than his love, nothing more than this which is between us, that elves – elves do not need all the complications and trappings which some mortals may enjoy. And I feel all the horror, the shame leave me, as I understand at last.

Finally, and I do not want to, I am so ashamed, so afraid of what he will feel, I tell him – reluctantly, but I must – of how – I would have – learnt – from that no-longer-a-ranger, had I been able.

And he is very quiet for a long moment. 

Then he says I probably helped the Man feel a lot more – attractive, and that was kind. That I took nothing that should be my love’s from him, as it turned out. That, if I had learnt that night, perhaps we two would have reached this place sooner.

I see his pain, and I would give anything to take it away. But I cannot. I can only say over and over, that nothing happened, that I am glad it did not, that I love him, I love him, I love him.

And he forgives me.

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

 

How can I not forgive him? 

The pain in his eyes, the sorrow, the shame. How can I not do or say anything to take that away?

I love him.

Besides, he did not have to tell me. He could have lied, and risked this new happiness – I would not reward truth with anger.

Of course I am hurt. Hurt that he did not come to me, hurt that he did not speak to me, hurt that close as we were, he was afraid to trust me.

But – a part of me admits to myself – I knew there was something wrong, for years, all this time, I knew. I knew he was in pain, I knew there was some trouble.

And I did not speak. I did not encourage – persuade – force – him to tell me, because I was afraid. Afraid, not of this, for how could I be, when I knew nothing; afraid that he wished our vowing undone, afraid he no longer cared for me, afraid he wanted another. 

If I did not trust what we are to each other – how can I blame him that he did not?

As for all the rest – indeed he has been a fool, but I ache for his pain, for his years of struggle as he tells me. The – as he calls them – dark desires and imaginings – I cannot say I like the thought, but – truly, as I tell him, I think it was the years of distress coming out. I daresay some people enjoy these things, and that is all very well – for them. But – it seems unnecessary to me, when this – this is so much. and I wonder whether it is simply as when one is hungry on campaign, one will think of feasts, and talk of wonderful meals one never in reality ate – yet when one reaches home, the food one wants is that one knows, and has always known, and that is prepared by those one loves. 

He smiles at those words, and I know I have found the right metaphor for my warrior to understand.

I find – I find the forgiveness comes more easily as I think of that no-longer-a-ranger, and I not only realise he is dead now, but that he did not truly want my Glorfindel – he merely wanted someone – anyone – to help him forget that the one he loved had turned away. I pity him, and I hope he has peace.

As for Thranduilion and his dwarf – they need none of our thoughts or apologies. They clearly have everything they could ever want.

As do we.

 

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

 

Nothing can ever be the same again.

I care not.

He loves me, and I him.

The House – the House glows. As, I remember, it glowed so long ago when our lord and lady were first wed.

Part of me wonders if we should be ashamed, should try to hide this – but we cannot. We did not mean this to become our realm, we did not think it had. Apparently the House feels otherwise.

The other elves do not ask, do not even raise eyebrows.

Somehow, I find I need to patrol less. 

Barely at all.

Only – only when there is little work for either of us here, we ride out together. And sometimes, I can watch my advisor, my councillor, my lover, my warrior fight.

And sometimes, sometimes, my warrior will spar with me. And it matters not who wins, who is disarmed first, it always ends in – in something which is not fighting.

And at last, at last I understand what love is.

At last, at last, I have everything I could ever wish for. At last I understand what love is – and I will never hold my tongue again, never fail in trust.

When our boys finally come home – they do not seem to care what we are to each other. They are simply glad to see us, to tell us their stories.

After they have gone, he tells me Elrohir – always closer to him, as his brother to me – did say something. Something about being relieved we had finally worked it out. Something about beginning to think they would have to say something more direct to us.

We laugh.

Most things make us laugh these days.

I wonder, from time to time, whether we should thank Thranduilion. If he had not spoken – who knows how long we could have continued in our separation? But – Erestor says no. Says some things are best left.

And I have learnt to trust my advisor.

But when we hear they have sailed together, those two – I find my heart is eased a little more. If Thranduilion can take a dwarf to Valinor, then surely we will not be forbidden.

He sees my thought, and he laughs at me.

He tells me again, Valinor is well-lost for an age of the world in my arms.

It may be, I say, but I would give you both.

For you, you restored my courage, my honour, you gave me back myself.

I can hold my head high again if you love me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all he is at pains to tell us he is a warrior, and no scholar, Glorfindel seems to be pretty well-read - he should acknowledge references to Thomas Hardy, Victor Hugo, St Augustine, Biblical writings in general, possibly others, and (I am sad to admit, its not my own) a certain wonderful t-shirt designer who coined the phrase "I killed a Balrog, you are so outclassed." - apparently for use when facing Nazgul at the Fords, but I think, if I was that cool, I would use it more than once........
> 
> Apologies (as ever) for any mistakes in Sindarin - feel free to let me know. I understand Melethron to mean lover rather than simply love (meleth) hence the distinction.
> 
> Oh, Erestor's father's name is (apparently) the translation of (Melvil) Dewey......(since Tolkien didn't tell us).


End file.
